After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets
I sat alone at my long marble dining table, staring at a plate of cold truffle risotto. My husband, Jere, was late again, claiming he was stuck in a "war zone" of a board meeting for a multi-billion dollar merger.
A single Instagram notification shattered the silence. It was a photo of a candlelit birthday dinner, featuring a man's hand resting on a white tablecloth. I recognized the slight veins, the jagged scar on the thumb, and the navy-faced Patek Philippe watch I had spent six months tracking down as a wedding gift. Jere wasn't in a boardroom; he was celebrating his ex-girlfriend Irina's birthday while texting me to "don't wait up."
The next morning, I followed him to a VIP hospital wing. I watched through a cracked door as my husband cuddled a five-year-old boy and whispered tender promises to Irina. When he came home, he tried to buy my silence with a rare pink diamond bracelet, but I found the receipt: he had bought two identical ones. He had branded his wife and his mistress with matching jewelry, using hidden trackers to keep us both on a leash. When I confronted him, he didn't flinch. He coldly reminded me that he owned my father's massive debts and could send him to prison for insolvency fraud with one phone call.
"Stop with the attitude, Deliah," he said.
I felt like a ghost haunting my own life, trapped in a gilded cage by the man who paid for my mother's heart surgery while keeping a secret family across town. The humiliation peaked at our rescheduled anniversary dinner when Jere received a text, threw a stack of hundreds at me like I was a stranger, and abandoned me in a crowded restaurant to rush back to her.
"Pay the bill," he commanded before walking out.
Standing in the wreckage of a shattered crystal vase back at the penthouse, I realized my silence was the only thing keeping his empire standing. I pulled the crumpled divorce papers from my purse and signed my name with a steady hand. I wasn't just walking away; I was calling his sister to help me burn his perfect world to the ground.
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Chapter 7
"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. She looked like a wreck-wet hair, diamonds on her wrist, panic in her eyes.
"New York-Presbyterian Hospital," Deliah said. Her voice was steel.
She pulled out her iPad from her bag. She knew Jere kept his location services on for his devices, a habit for recovering lost tech. She activated "Find My Device."
The dot blinked. It wasn't at a data center in New Jersey. It was at the hospital. Upper East Side.
The cab dropped her off ten minutes later. Deliah pulled her trench coat tight around herself. She bypassed the main lobby. She knew the security guards would be on alert for her now.
She walked toward the staff entrance near the loading dock. A group of interns was chatting, smoking cigarettes. Deliah spotted a white lab coat hanging over a railing where one of the smokers had left it. With a practiced ease born of years navigating medical school, she scooped it up and slipped it on over her dress.
She pulled a disposable mask from her pocket-something she always carried since the pandemic-and put it on. She walked confidently toward the keypad-protected door. She didn't know the code, but she waited, pretending to check her phone.
A tired-looking resident swiped his badge to enter. Deliah caught the door with her foot just before it latched, slipping in behind him. She kept her head down, her gait purposeful. In a hospital, if you looked like you belonged, no one questioned you.
She navigated the maze of corridors, avoiding eye contact, until she reached the service elevators. She pressed the button for the 13th Floor. Private Suites.
The elevator rose slowly, smelling of bleach and sickness. Deliah felt like an intruder in her own husband's life. She was the mistress of his reality, sneaking in to see the truth.
The doors opened. The hallway was quiet, carpeted in plush navy. It smelled of lavender, not antiseptic. This was where the billionaires died, or recovered.
She heard a familiar laugh down the hall. It was Jere's laugh-a sound she hadn't heard directed at her in years.
She crept forward, hugging the wall.
She saw Jere's bodyguard standing by a door about fifty feet away. He was looking at his phone, bored.
Deliah waited. After a minute, the guard turned and walked toward a coffee cart at the nurses' station.
She moved. She slipped past the empty post, her heart in her throat. She reached the door of Suite 1302.
The door was slightly ajar.
She peered through the crack.
The room was dimly lit, cozy. Jere was sitting on a beige couch, his suit jacket off, his tie undone. Next to him sat a woman. She was petite, fragile-looking, with dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Irina. She was leaning her head on Jere's shoulder, her eyes closed.
On the floor, a young boy-maybe five or six years old-was playing with the giant teddy bear Jere had bought.
Deliah felt a physical blow to her gut. It was a tableau of domestic perfection. It was a family.
"Jere," Irina said softly, lifting her head. "Thank you for coming. Leo was so scared. He kept asking for his papa."
Jere stroked her hair. His touch was tender, reverent. "I told you I'd always be here. I'm not going anywhere."
Deliah's hand gripped the doorframe. Her knuckles turned white. She questioned her sanity. Was she the villain? Was she the evil witch disrupting this fragile, beautiful scene?
Then, Irina moved her hand to brush a tear from her cheek. The sleeve of her silk robe slipped down.
Something sparkled on Irina's wrist.
Deliah squinted. The light from the bedside lamp hit the jewelry.
It wasn't just a bracelet, it was a signal that the marriage was finally coming to an end.
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8.1
A marriage of half a decade that Emily Winchester had poured her heart and soul into crumbled in a night after catching her sister and husband lustfully entangled. Her soon-to-be ex releases her nudes to the world, framing her with infidelity. She leaves the marriage with a little more than the clothes on her back, and desperately trying to pay for her grandmother's hospital bills, is aligned with New York's notorious playboy billionaire, Sean Woods, as he's looking for a contract wife.
What happens when a single night encounter is all that is needed for the most eligible bachelor in the country to have his sights set on her? Will she just turn into one of his many conquests or be the one woman who claims his heart alone?
8.9
Debora went to prison to protect the man she loved, only to end up a paroled convict living under the roof of her abusive foster parents.
When they found her positive pregnancy test from a one-night stand, they threatened to kick her out and send her straight back to a cell.
Just as they were about to report her, the stranger from that dark hotel room suddenly appeared.
He paid her foster parents one million dollars to marry her and take her away.
Debora thought she was finally safe.
But the moment they were alone, he looked at her with pure, venomous hatred.
He didn't want a wife; he wanted a prisoner.
He believed Debora was the ruthless murderer who had destroyed his life in a car crash, and he planned to make her suffocate in her own despair.
He didn't know she was just a scapegoat.
To survive and protect her baby, Debora found a job at a bridal shop, only to run into the real culprit—the man who actually drove the car and framed her.
He was now happily engaged to a wealthy heiress.
They deliberately ruined a priceless wedding gown and blamed it on her.
"Kneel on this floor and apologize, or I'm calling the police to revoke your parole!"
Why did she have to rot in hell for his sins, while the man she married wanted to destroy her?
Just as her trembling knees were about to touch the cold marble floor, the heavy glass doors were violently shoved open.
Her billionaire husband strode in like a force of nature, his eyes locked onto the wealthy couple with a terrifying, destructive rage.
7.9
Meet Maya Brooks, a 22 year old who dropped out of school after her father was murdered and her family lost everything.
Determined to uncover the truth behind his death, she takes a job as a personal maid to Ryan Greenville a 25 year old, irresistible CEO known for using and dumping women.
Cold, powerful, and emotionally guarded, Ryan never planned to fall for anyone again until Maya entered his life.
As their worlds collide, dark secrets begin to surface.
Get ready for a thrilling journey of love, revenge, and hidden truths.
8.2
Trapped in a deadly fire at my own engagement party, my lungs burned as I reached a shaking hand out to my fiancé for help.
He stopped and looked right at me through the thick smoke. But instead of saving me, he wrapped his jacket tightly around my stepsister and ran, leaving me to burn.
I barely survived. But when I woke up in the hospital, my father and stepmother didn't even ask about my injuries.
They threw a stack of legal documents right onto my bed.
"Sign the papers, Avah. Step aside. Jaclyn is far better suited to be Kain's wife."
My fiancé then stormed into the room, publicly humiliating me with false rumors of an illegitimate child and threatening to bankrupt my company.
Four years of swallowing my pride to be the perfect, obedient pawn for our family business, all for nothing.
They threw me to the wolves without a single second of hesitation, expecting me to just lower my head and cry like I always did.
But the fire had burned that pathetic version of me away.
I ripped out my IV, letting the blood drip onto the sheets, and tore their contracts straight down the middle.
"The engagement is over."
I threw my million-dollar ring right at my ex's chest, then picked up the phone to call my trust lawyer. They wanted to take everything from me, so I was going to make them bleed.
8.4
They say marrying Cassian Blackmoor is a death sentence.
Seventeen wives. Seventeen funerals. One widower no one can explain.
They call him cursed. They call him dangerous. Some call him a murderer who hides behind wealth and silence. But no one can prove anything - and no one dares accuse a billionaire who buries his wives with the same calm devotion he once loved them with.
Eloise Laurent knows the rumors. She knows the whispers. She knows the stories about the widower whose brides never live long.
Instead, she falls for him.
For the quiet sadness in his eyes.
For the way his voice softens only for her.
For the way he loves like he's terrified of losing her.
And maybe he should be.
But when she discovers a hidden grave bearing her own name, Eloise realizes something far worse than rumors is waiting for her inside his house.
9.2
I was a Parsons-trained designer, but with my family drowning in over half a million dollars of debt, I delivered coffee just to survive.
One clumsy mistake—spilling a latte in a corporate lobby—put me on the radar of the city's most ruthless billionaire, Christian Mercer.
A week later, I wasn't fired. I was summoned to his office on the 85th floor, where he laid out a contract.
He knew everything: my student loans, my mother's crippling medical bills, the foreclosure notices piling up on our kitchen table. He offered to wipe it all away, plus pay me five million dollars.
The price was one year of my life as his wife.
He called it a "mutually beneficial transaction," coldly stating my desperate circumstances made me the perfect, compliant candidate. I wasn't a person to him, just an asset to be acquired to solve a problem he refused to explain.
But when I found the eviction notice taped to our apartment door, my pride was a luxury I could no longer afford. I signed his contract. After a sterile City Hall ceremony, he left me alone in his cold, empty penthouse with a final, chilling instruction.
"The public part of our agreement begins now, Mrs. Mercer," he said, his voice void of any emotion. "Act accordingly."