The CEO's Unread Divorce

When Julian Pierce—my CEO husband—handed the keynote speech I’d prepared for the tech summit to his assistant, Savannah Ross, a triumphant smirk touched his lips. He thought three months of the silent treatment had finally broken me.

Leaning against my desk, he murmured about our long-postponed fifth-anniversary trip—a private tour of Italian wineries. His voice was low, but even his expensive cologne couldn’t mask the stench of betrayal.

But when Savannah overheard, she put on a masterclass in office theatrics, bursting into tears and threatening to quit. And true to form, Julian panicked. He always fell apart at the sight of her tears.

After three days of placating her, he canceled our trip, citing a "client emergency," and handed her my first-class ticket.

He even had the audacity to caress my cheek later, whispering, "Business first, baby. A good wife understands."

I just stared silently at my phone, at the picture on Savannah's social media feed: the two of them, cozied up on a private jet. A moment later, a text from Julian lit up my screen: "Proud of you for finally growing up."

He also promised a "much better" surprise for me when he returned.

Too bad for him. He'd already signed the divorce papers. We were done.

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1

The day Julian and Savannah flew to Italy, I finalized my handover and marched down to HR to formally submit my resignation.

Within ten minutes, the email notification pinged. Approved.

Of course. Julian himself had approved it in the midst of his "busy" schedule.

"Guess the boss couldn't wait to get rid of her. At least she knew when to make a graceful exit."

"Exactly. Clinging on would only be more embarrassing. I wonder what she'll do now."

"Who cares? We're here working our asses off just to make ends meet. She was married to the CEO. She could take a year off and still be set for life."

They watched as I packed my personal belongings, the smug satisfaction practically radiating off them.

It was hardly surprising.

Everyone knew Savannah and I didn't get along. And Julian? My dear husband always took her side—sometimes even publicly humiliating me just to appease her.

The office staff had quickly chosen their allegiances, all of them desperately sucking up to Savannah.

I let out a dry laugh. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not quitting out of heartbreak. I took a new job. For double the salary."

I didn't bother to look at their stunned, envious faces as I grabbed my box of belongings and strode out of the office.

And then—predictably—the moment my feet hit the pavement, Julian's call came through.

I had been mentally rehearsing this conversation for days, but he spoke the second I answered.

"I sent you a file. I need it revised and back to me within the hour."

So, he had no idea I'd resigned.

I almost laughed. I opened the file. It was the very project I had just handed over to Savannah.

Same old story.

Savannah got the credit; I did the work.

And when a project went south? The blame landed squarely on my shoulders.

At first, I had refused. But Julian was relentless. When I didn't yield, he resorted to his favorite tactic: the silent treatment, for days on end.

"Marriage requires compromise," my parents had always told me, a lesson I'd taken to heart long before we were even engaged.

I didn't want a rift in our relationship, so I gave in, time and time again. I thought one day he would see everything I did for him.

But this time was different. To promote Savannah, he had picked a massive fight with me and then shut me out for three whole months.

Even when my father was hospitalized with a heart attack, his only concern was snatching the summit project from me—a project I had spent a month securing.

That was the moment I finally gave up on him. For good.