Secretly Divorced：The Ruthless Don Begs Too Late

Five years ago. Three months after our wedding.

Ives placed a sleek, black Swiss bank card on the table in front of me.

“This is our joint account,” he said, taking my hand. His thumb brushed over my wedding ring. “Everything the Moretti family has, from this day on, is yours too. I don’t want you to be like the other bosses’ wives—just a trophy, a baby-maker.”

His eyes were so sincere, so full of promise.

“You’re my queen, Aurora. Every inch of this empire I build, I build for you.”

I remember being so moved I had to fight back tears.

From that day on, every dollar I earned on my own went into that account.

I thought we were building our future.

Until I discovered Ives was using it to shower Isabella with gifts.

Everything from fifty-thousand-dollar bracelets to multi-million-dollar mansions.

I’d confronted him about it once. He’d just said, coldly, “That’s less than you spend at a single auction. Why are you being so petty?”

Then came the silent treatment, until I couldn't stand the coldness and caved.

I was sure this half a million was for her, too.

I took a deep breath and called Ives.

No answer. He was probably tangled up in the sheets with Isabella.

I wasn’t wasting another second. I called my private banker and had them freeze the account.

Ives had clearly forgotten that I was a co-owner of that card, with equal authority.

Less than ten minutes later, Ives called back.

“Aurora!” His voice was tight with fury. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He was beyond pissed. "I just saw you called. I was at an auction. My payment was declined. Did you freeze the account?”

“I did,” I said calmly.

There was a two-second pause, thick with disbelief.

“Why?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Do you have any idea how that makes me look? The whole room was watching!”

“I have the right to do whatever I want with my property,” I said, a cold laugh escaping my lips. “And at the very least, I won’t have it spent on people I despise.”

“Aurora, are you throwing a tantrum? Are you a child?” he snapped, his voice rising before he seemed to catch himself. “Look, I know I’ve been distant,” he said, his voice softening into a practiced, placating tone. “How about this? After this trip, I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go to the Maldives. Just us. Okay?”

He sounded like he was pacifying a brat.

“Just us,” he repeated, his voice firming up again. “Now, unfreeze the account. Immediately.”

“And if I say no?”

Another heavy silence.

Then, his voice turned to ice. “Then we’re getting a divorce.”

Divorce.

He was playing his trump card. Again.

For years, every time we fought, every time I dared to stand up for myself, he’d throw that word in my face.

“Keep this up, and we’re getting a divorce.”

“If you don’t listen to me, I’ll divorce you.”

And every single time, I was the one who backed down.

Because I loved him.

But now, my eyes were wide open. “Fine. As you wish.”

I hung up.

I had more important things to do: set the plan in motion.

A month ago, I had slipped the divorce papers into a thick stack of asset transfer agreements for Ives to sign.

The bitter irony was that after five years of my unwavering devotion, he trusted me so completely with paperwork that he’d sign anything I put in front of him without a second glance.

Now, it was time.

“Even though Mr. Moretti signed it,” my lawyer had explained, “we need a clear, recorded verbal confirmation from both parties that the marriage is irretrievably broken. Basically, you need to get him to say he wants a divorce on the phone.”

So I called Ives again. He picked up on the first ring.

“Aurora, you dare hang up on me?!”

“Ives,” I said, cutting straight to the chase. “About our marriage—”

“Do you have any idea how much you upset Isabella?” he snarled, cutting me off. “If you don’t apologize to her right now, I swear to God, I will divorce you.”

I could hear Isabella’s fake, wounded voice in the background. “Ives, it’s okay… I don’t mind being a little hurt, as long as Aurora isn’t angry anymore…”

Then he was back on the line, his voice thick with self-righteousness. “You hear that? Isabella is willing to be the bigger person, but you have to apologize. That’s my final offer.”

“I heard,” I said. “Thank you, Ives.”

“Thank me for what?” He sounded confused.

“Thank you for saying the word ‘divorce.’” I hung up.

Across from me, my lawyer gave a sharp nod. “That’s it. The paperwork is complete. As of this moment, your divorce is legally in effect.”

After finalizing the divorce, I did one last thing: I put the mansion Ives and I had lived in for five years on the market.

Luckily, the house was in my name. I didn't need his permission.

After a few busy days, I finally came home to pack my last few things, only to find something at the door that wasn’t mine.

A pair of Louboutins. Black stilettos, their soles the color of fresh blood.

Isabella’s.