My Husband Only Started Loving Me After The Divorce

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent, a slow ascent into the heart of her own personal hell. Alicia stood at the back, her reflection in the polished brass walls a pale, bruised stranger. When the doors opened with a soft chime, she stepped out into the private foyer.

She took a deep breath, the air tasting like stale regret, and pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner. The lock clicked open.

The first thing she saw was the shoes.

A pair of bubblegum pink, five-inch stilettos, kicked off carelessly near the entryway. They weren't hers. They screamed Bianca Lloyd.

A cold, heavy weight settled in the pit of her stomach. She slipped out of her own flats and walked into the apartment. The air was thick with a cloying, sweet perfume she didn't recognize and the faint, sour smell of stale champagne.

Julian's suit jacket, the one he'd worn yesterday, was tossed over the back of the white leather sofa. Her heart, which she thought couldn't break any further, fractured into smaller, sharper pieces. But her face remained a mask of stone.

She walked past the living room, her steps silent on the marble floor, and headed for the master bedroom.

The door was slightly ajar.

She pushed it open.

The scene inside froze the blood in her veins. Bianca Lloyd was sitting at her vanity, wrapped in her silk bathrobe, dabbing her outrageously expensive face cream onto her cheeks.

Bianca heard the door and looked up, her reflection meeting Alicia's in the mirror. There was no surprise on her face, no panic. Just a slow, triumphant smile that dripped with condescension.

"Oh, Alicia. You're back," she said, her voice a purr. "Jules thought you weren't coming home tonight."

As if on cue, the bathroom door opened. Julian walked out, a towel slung low on his hips, another wrapped around his neck, his dark hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders.

He saw Alicia. His eyes, cold and gray as a winter storm, flickered to the makeshift bandage on her forehead, and his brow furrowed. Not in concern. In annoyance.

His first words to her were not, Are you okay? They were not, What happened?

They were, "What kind of trick are you playing now?"

The accusation, so swift and baseless, stole the air from her lungs. She looked from his callous face to Bianca's smug one, and a wave of humiliation so profound washed over her that her knees felt weak.

Julian completely ignored her pain. He walked over to Bianca, placing a protective hand on her shoulder, his voice softening with a concern he had never shown Alicia. "Did she scare you?"

Bianca immediately melted into her role, her face crumpling into a mask of frightened innocence. She shrank back, pressing herself against Julian's bare chest. "Jules, I... I was just borrowing the shower. The one in the guest room is broken."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped Alicia's lips. The sound was like gravel. "Borrowing?" she repeated, her voice hoarse. "In my robe, using my things, in my bedroom?"

Julian's face darkened. He saw this as nothing more than another one of her jealous, hysterical episodes.

He strode towards her, his height and physical presence designed to intimidate. He stood over her, looking down his nose at her as if she were something he'd scraped off his shoe. "Alicia, cut the crap. I don't have time for your pathetic little dramas."

She lifted her chin, meeting his icy gaze. "Julian. We need to talk."

"I have nothing to talk to you about," he snapped, his patience gone. "Bianca had too much to drink at her party. I let her crash here. That's it."

He tried to brush past her, grabbing his jacket from the sofa, clearly intending to leave with Bianca. To leave her in the wreckage of their home, of their marriage.

The sight of his back, so dismissive, so final, was the last spark. The anger and despair she had been swallowing for three years erupted like lava. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on a heavy crystal vase on the coffee table. Her hand closed around its cool, solid weight.