His Unwanted Wife Is A Tech Genius

The antique music box was still spinning.

Cali Sullivan stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the Kensington mansion, watching the empty fountain in the garden. She had come home early. Today was her thirtieth birthday.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. The screen lit up, not with a message, but with a calendar notification she had set for herself weeks ago.

Happy Birthday!

She swiped it away. A few texts were waiting beneath them—bright bubbles of affection from friends back in the States. She scanned the names. None of them said Halsey.

A familiar tightness gripped her chest, a cold fist closing around her lungs. She forced it down, forcing a breath. He was probably planning a surprise. He had to be. After three years of marriage, he could not have forgotten her thirtieth birthday.

The Donovan family driver had met her at Heathrow. He took her bag without a word and held the door of the Rolls-Royce open. Inside, the leather was cool against her skin. London slid past the window, a blur of familiar gray stone and wet streets. Three years. Three years since she had packed up her life, her career, her entire world, and moved here for him. For this.

Her fingers went to the wedding band on her left hand. The platinum felt cold, heavy. A permanent fixture that had never generated any warmth.

The car had turned into the private drive, and she had stepped out into the fortress of white stone and dark windows. Mrs. Peterson met her in the grand entryway. Her kind, wrinkled face broke into a genuine smile. "Madam, you're back! Happy birthday!"

A flicker of real warmth touched Cali. She stepped forward and gave the older woman a brief hug. "Thank you, Mrs. Peterson. It's good to be back. Are Halsey and Lily around?"

The warmth in Mrs. Peterson's eyes faltered. She looked away, busying herself with taking Cali's coat. The movement was just a little too deliberate.

"Sir... he's out," she said, her voice low.

Cali's smile froze, feeling brittle on her lips. She looked around the grand entrance hall, searching for any sign of her daughter—a discarded hair ribbon, a small pair of sneakers by the door. But the foyer was immaculate, silent, without a trace of either Halsey or Lily. "Out? Today? Did he... forget?"

Mrs. Peterson looked pained. She smoothed the lapels of Cali's coat, her gaze fixed on the cashmere. "He remembers your birthday, Madam. But... Miss Stephens's birthday is also today. He took her to Bond Street to choose a gift."

Brittaney Stephens. The name was a physical thing, a shard of glass sliding under her ribs. It always was.

Cali's voice was thin, barely a whisper. "And Lily?"

"Sir and Miss Stephens took Lily with them," Mrs. Peterson confirmed, finally meeting her eyes with an expression of deep pity.

The air in the cavernous hall seemed to vanish. Cali felt a wave of dizziness and put a hand out to steady herself against a marble console table. The stone was cold, unforgiving.

"Madam, are you all right?" Mrs. Peterson asked, her voice laced with concern. "You must be exhausted from your flight. Can I get you something? Tea?"

Cali shook her head, unable to form words. "No. Thank you. I'm... I'm just going to go upstairs. To rest."

She walked up the sweeping staircase, each step feeling like a monumental effort. The master bedroom was exactly as she'd left it. Immaculate, impersonal, and cold. There was no sign of Halsey. Not a stray tie, not a book on the nightstand. He hadn't slept in here for months.

She sat on the edge of the perfectly made bed and looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror. A pale, tired woman with shadows under her eyes. She let out a short, bitter laugh that made no sound.

Her hand, moving on its own, picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over Halsey's name. This was foolish. Pathetic. She pressed the screen anyway.

The phone rang, each tone echoing in the silent room, stretching into an eternity. Finally, he picked up.

"What is it?" His voice was clipped, impatient. Not a greeting. Just a demand.

Cali swallowed, trying to keep her own voice even. "Halsey. I'm home."

A beat of silence on the other end. Then, a flat, dismissive, "Mm."

That was it. That was all she was worth. Her heart, which had been a tight knot in her chest, felt like it was dissolving into ice water. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but was cut off by a bright, feminine voice in the background.

"Halsey, what do you think of this necklace? Lily says it's beautiful." It was Brittaney.

Then, her own daughter's voice, high and excited. "Yes, Daddy! Auntie Brittaney looks like a princess!"

Halsey's attention was already gone. "I'm busy," he said into the phone. "I'll call you later."

He didn't wait for a reply. The line went dead.

Cali held the phone to her ear, listening to the empty silence of the dial tone. It was the only sound in the room, a perfect match for the sound of her world breaking apart.

But she did not cry.

She lowered the phone slowly, and looked at the woman in the mirror—pale, tired, forgotten. Then she made a decision.

She opened her contacts and dialed another number.

"Julian. It's me. Please prepare a divorce agreement."

A stunned silence on the other end.

"I'm sure," she said, before he could ask. "Simple terms: I waive all claims to marital assets. I only want my maiden name back. Also—notify the AI project team at Donovan Group. The exclusive licensing agreement for the deep learning patent—I'm terminating it. The penalty is thirty million pounds. I'll pay it."

Julian's breath caught in the receiver.

Cali ended the call and placed the phone on the vanity.

She looked at the woman in the mirror—straight in the eyes this time—and did not look away.

Happy birthday, Cali. You're finally free.