Divorce My “Dual Personality” Billionaire Husband

"Serena! What are you even talking about? I don't understand!"

His voice kept climbing with every word.

"I'm sick! I can't control him! You know that! The doctor said so -- it's a disorder!"

"How can you blame me for everything he does?! I love you, Serena!"

I didn't want to look anymore. Didn't want to listen.

I bent down and grabbed the handle of my suitcase.

I needed to leave. Right now.

"Serena! Don't go! I shouldn't have let him take over! I shouldn't have gotten sick!"

When he saw me heading for the door, he threw himself forward and clung to my legs, dropping to his knees on the floor.

"Don't leave. I'm begging you. I'll die without you."

I tried to pull my legs free, but his grip was iron.

In the middle of our tug-of-war, the doorbell rang.

We both froze.

Ethan's hands loosened instinctively.

Before he could grab me again, I pulled free and stepped back.

The doorbell kept ringing, joined by a young woman's voice.

"Ethan Westbrook? Open up! I know you're home!"

Vivian Lane.

The new dance instructor.

Ethan scrambled to his feet, eyes darting between me and the door.

Outside, Vivian was losing patience. She started pounding.

"Ethan! Open the door! Axel said he was taking me to look at cars today!"

Ethan braced himself and hurried to the door.

But he didn't open it. Instead, he pressed close to the other side, voice low, urgent, a warning threaded through every word.

"Vivian! What are you doing here? Leave! Now's not a good time!"

"What's not a good time? Axel said I could come over whenever I wanted!"

"You won't open up? Fine. I'll let myself in."

Then came the sound of a key sliding into the lock.

The door swung open.

Vivian stood there in a figure-hugging dress, makeup flawless, her young, pretty face bright with a confident smile.

The moment she spotted the suitcase at my feet, that smile curdled into something sharp and taunting.

"Oh, look who it is." She looked me up and down, lips curling. "Ethan Westbrook's frumpy little wife."

Her gaze slid to Ethan, whose face had gone rigid. She let out a teasing laugh.

"What's the drama here? Axel told me he's been dying for you to pack your bags. Said he was sick of your moping."

Ethan lurched forward, trying to get between us, his voice tight with anger.

"Vivian! Shut up! I'm Ethan right now! Not Axel! Get out!"

"I don't care if you're Ethan or Axel!" Vivian shoved past him, strode to the coffee table, and slapped a piece of paper down on the glass surface.

"Read it." She tilted her chin up, looking like the cat that got the cream.

"I'm pregnant. It's Axel's. And he said he'd step up."

She fixed her eyes on me, drawing out every word like she'd already won.

Ethan waved his hands frantically, words tripping over each other.

"Serena, no -- listen to me -- it was Axel! He did this!"

"I had no idea! I can't control him! You're the one I love!"

There it was again.

Every time Axel wrecked something, Ethan would weep and apologize and shove all the blame onto his imaginary alter ego.

And I was always the one expected to forgive, to endure, to clean up the wreckage -- Ethan's eternal savior.

I walked over, leaned down, and picked up the test results.

"Pregnant? Congratulations."

"You'd better pray this baby really is Ethan Westbrook's."

I set the paper back on the table.

"After all, Ethan has a diagnosed mental illness."

"Legally speaking, a patient with a documented psychiatric condition -- the validity of his civil actions is very much up for debate."

"Even if you have this baby, good luck getting child support out of him."

Vivian stood there, stunned. She clearly hadn't expected this reaction from me. Hadn't expected these words.

"Enough!" Ethan roared, turning on Vivian. "Get out! Right now!"

Vivian flinched at the look on his face. She gave me one last poisonous look, then turned to Ethan, grabbed her bag, muttered "Psycho," and slammed the door behind her.

Ethan walked toward me, one slow step at a time.

"Serena." His voice was dangerously low.

"You really want to do this? Fine. You've got nerve."

"Divorce? Sure." He nodded.

"But listen carefully. You want out? We do it on my terms."

"The apartment is my premarital asset. Most of our savings -- I earned that money."

"You want a cut? Dream on. You won't see a single cent."

He stared straight into my eyes, spacing out every word:

"And your mother's medical bills -- you know exactly how much those cost every month."

"Cut off my money, and see how long she lasts. You want to play tough, Serena? Go ahead."

"Take your sick mother and go live on the streets."

He thought I'd shatter. That I'd cry. That I'd beg.

Just like every other time -- a little coldness, a little crisis manufactured in Axel's name, and I would fold. I would give in.

I would swallow every ounce of pain to hold that household together, to keep my mother's medical bills paid.

I lifted my chin, looked at his face, and smiled.