Divorced by Mistake, Claimed by the Billionaire He Hates

He said nothing else. He swept Serena Bellucci up in his arms and turned his back on me, carrying her out of the room without a second glance.

I stood where I was. My whole body felt frozen.

In that moment, I truly could not believe those words had come out of his mouth.

The cold crept up from somewhere deep inside my chest, spreading outward as though I had fallen into a pit of ice.

How I made it back to the estate, I couldn't say. The drive was a blur. The whole way, I held everything in, jaw clenched, refusing to let a single tear fall.

By the time I walked through the doors, my eyes were swollen red beyond hiding.

Marta saw the mark on my face and went pale. She rushed over, the kitchen staff trailing behind her, all of them talking over one another. Who did this? Was it an outsider? They wanted to call Dante, bring him home, make him answer for it.

"Don't."

I stopped them quietly.

Every wound I carried, he had put there himself.

I sat by the window in the upstairs room, pressing a cloth of crushed ice to my cheek for a full hour before the swelling finally began to ease. Through the glass, the compound lights cut sharp lines across the courtyard. Two soldiers smoked by the gate, unaware of anything.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Serena Bellucci.

"Signora, did you make it home? I'm already at the hospital. Dante spoils me too much. I only fainted for a second and he reserved the entire VIP floor, brought in over a dozen specialists just to examine me."

"Oh, by the way, how's your face? I'm so sorry I didn't hold back. It must really hurt. Would you like to come to the hospital? I'll be generous and share one of my doctors with you. Wouldn't want you to end up scarred."

I read it once. Then I forwarded the message directly to Dante.

He didn't reply until after midnight.

"Serena meant well."

I stared at those three words, and I couldn't help it. I laughed.

I kept laughing, and then the tears came down.

The next second, I sent him a voice message.

"You're so eager to protect her? Then marry her. Bring her home right now. I'll step aside. I'll even wish you both a hundred years of happiness."

This time, he replied fast.

"Vera, why do you keep saying things you don't mean? I've told you so many times — my wife will only ever be you. Girls like her are nothing. Just entertainment. Don't read so much into it. Get some rest. I'll come home tomorrow and spend the day with you."

I read the message, and all I felt was a vast, hollow exhaustion.

Like throwing a punch into cotton. No impact. No sound. Nothing coming back.

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh, too tired to trade another word with him over things that meant nothing, and turned off my phone.

The next day.

After lunch, I drove to the old Moretti estate. I brought the imperial jade set that Donna Winslow had given me on my wedding day. The necklace, the earrings, the bracelet. Heirloom pieces, supposedly passed through the family for generations. Sacred things.

My timing was poor.

Don Winslow and Donna Winslow had left for Bali at dawn. The estate steward told me they wouldn't return for a month.

I said nothing more. I left the velvet case with the steward, turned, and walked out.

My thumb pressed the worn edge of my grandmother's pocket watch as I crossed the gravel drive. By the time I reached the car, my hand was steady.

After leaving the old estate, I went to a spa in the city. Afterward, I stopped at a boutique and bought over a dozen pairs of earrings that caught my eye.

When I finally returned home, the lights in the main room were already on.

Dante sat on the leather sofa. The table in front of him was covered in gift boxes, stacked neatly, ribbons and branded tissue spilling from their edges.

He heard me come in. Set his phone down. Looked up.

"The steward says you returned the heirloom set?"

"I did."

He exhaled slowly. Rose from the couch and came to sit beside me.

"Still angry? Come on. Don't be like this. I brought all of these for you." He gestured at the boxes. "Just forgive me this once. Alright?"

I looked at him, and something in me almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

In his mind, returning the heirlooms was a tantrum. A mood. A wife throwing a fit because she needed more attention.

Not a woman who no longer wanted a single thread connecting her to him.

He was so certain. So impossibly certain that I would never leave.

That certainty was why he dared do whatever he pleased. Why he could propose that they each "have their own fun" as though it were reasonable. Why he could parade other women in front of me, again and again, and expect me to still be sitting here when he came home.

I didn't answer.

I glanced at the familiar logos stamped across the gift boxes, and something cold and mocking flickered behind my eyes.

"What I want," I said, "can only ever be one of a kind."