The Divorced Wife's Secret Triplet Heirs

Ellie Mills stared at her own reflection.

The woman in the ornate mirror had a pale, tired face. Her fingers, thin and cold, twisted the wedding band on her ring finger. A simple, elegant platinum ring that felt heavier than a shackle.

It was a symbol of a transaction, nothing more.

Her other hand, hidden below the vanity table, clenched the fabric over her stomach. Her knuckles turned white from the force, a fleeting, desperate grip before her fingers went limp again.

A wave of exhaustion washed over her, so profound it felt like drowning.

The bedroom door burst open without a knock.

The sound shattered the suffocating silence. Ellie's body went rigid. In the mirror, she saw her mother-in-law, Eleanor Vega, marching in. Eleanor's face was a mask of stern disapproval, her hands carrying a black lacquer tray.

Ellie stood up instinctively, a conditioned response to the woman's presence.

Eleanor slammed the tray onto the polished mahogany table. The porcelain bowl on it rattled, the dark brown liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

The air filled with the thick, bitter scent of herbs.

A wave of nausea churned in Ellie's stomach. She recognized the smell. It was another one of the "fertility" remedies Eleanor had sourced from some obscure specialist.

"Drink it," Eleanor commanded. Her voice was as sharp and cold as shattered glass. "The Vega family needs an heir. My patience is wearing thin."

Ellie's lips parted. She wanted to scream that in three years of marriage, her husband had touched her a handful of times. This vile soup was pointless.

But the words died in her throat.

"I understand," she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor.

Her obedience didn't appease Eleanor. It only seemed to fuel her contempt. "Don't forget your place, Ellie. If it weren't for your mother's illness, you would never have been qualified to even step foot in this house."

The words were a familiar poison, sinking deep. Ellie's hands balled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

Eleanor pressed on, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, cruel whisper. "And Kourtney Dorsey is back. You should understand what that means."

Kourtney.

The name struck Ellie like a physical blow. The air in the opulent room seemed to vanish, sucked out by that single name. Kourtney, the woman who held the place in Brock's heart that Ellie could never touch.

Her face, already pale, lost its last trace of color.

Just as the tension became unbearable, the door opened again.

Brock Vega stood there, framed by the doorway. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, his broad shoulders filling the space, casting a long shadow into the room. He brought with him an aura of immense pressure, of cold, hard power.

His ice-blue eyes swept over the scene-the bowl of dark liquid, his mother's triumphant sneer, his wife's ghostly pallor. His expression remained utterly blank.

Eleanor's face lit up, assuming he was there to support her. "Brock, you're just in time. Help me convince Ellie..."

He walked past her as if she hadn't spoken.

He moved directly to his desk, his steps silent and purposeful. From his leather briefcase, he withdrew a manila folder. The movement was crisp, efficient, devoid of any emotion.

He didn't look at Ellie.

Instead, he slid the folder across the smooth surface of her vanity table.

The soft scraping sound of paper on wood was deafening in the silent room. It felt like a crack of thunder directly over her head.

She looked down.

Embossed in gold letters on the cover were two words.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

The air left Ellie's lungs in a single, silent gasp. Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with disbelief, locking onto Brock's profile.

Eleanor saw it too. "Divorce?" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Brock, what are you doing?"

He finally spoke. His voice was like the dead of winter, stripped of all warmth, all feeling.

"Kourtney's back."

He looked at Ellie then, his gaze direct and brutal.

"This transaction is over."

The admission was a second, more profound humiliation. He didn't even bother to lie or soften the blow. It was business. It had always been business.

Ellie felt the strength drain from her limbs. She gripped the edge of the vanity to keep from collapsing.

Three years.

Three years of silent meals, of empty nights, of biting her tongue until it bled. Three years of enduring Eleanor's scorn, all for this.

A joke. A pathetic, cruel joke.

She stared at the cold, handsome face of the man she called her husband. A man she had never truly known.

Brock added one final, crushing detail, his voice flat, as if closing a deal.

"The terms are generous. It's more than enough to cover all your mother's future medical expenses."

He paused, his eyes like chips of ice.

"Sign it. And we're even."