Divorced By The Billionaire Who Still Owns Me

Elara’s Pov;

Leaving New York was easier than staying.

That surprised me.

I thought I would hesitate at the city limits, that I would feel something dramatic when the skyline disappeared in my rearview mirror. But nothing like that happened.

I just kept driving, hands steady on the wheel, my phone switched off, my bag on the passenger seat.

I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.

I told myself that was temporary. Just until things settled. Just until I figured out what came next.

But deep down, I knew I wasn’t planning to come back anytime soon.

I rented a small apartment two states away. It wasn’t much. One bedroom, thin walls, uneven floors. But it was clean, and it was quiet, and no one knew who I was there. That mattered more than comfort.

The first few weeks were chaotic.

Paperwork.

Doctor appointments. New numbers. New routines. I spent hours sitting in waiting rooms, filling out forms, and explaining my history without saying too much. I learned how to answer questions without opening doors I couldn’t afford to reopen.

“Partner?” the nurse asked during my first appointment there.

“No,” I said.

She nodded and wrote it down like it was the most normal thing in the world. That helped more than she knew.

The pregnancy wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t dramatic either. I was tired all the time. The food tasted strange. Some days I couldn’t stand the smell of coffee, which felt like a personal betrayal. Other days I ate cereal for dinner because I didn’t have the energy to cook.

I worked when I could.

I used my maiden name again. Updated my résumé. Took freelance jobs that didn’t ask too many questions.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid rent, and it gave me something to focus on that wasn’t my own fear.

Adrian tried to contact me at first.

Emails. Calls. Messages sent through lawyers. I didn’t respond to any of them.

I changed my number after the third voicemail that started sounding less like concern and more like irritation.

I knew that tone. It meant he wasn’t used to being ignored.

The divorce was finalized quickly.

That part hurt quietly. Not because I wanted to be married to him again, but because of how easy it was for him to let go once the paperwork was done.

No public statement. No effort to find me. No questions asked.

Just silence.

I told myself that was closure.

Months passed.

My body changed slowly, then all at once. One morning I looked in the mirror and realized I was clearly pregnant now. There was no hiding it anymore.

That moment scared me more than the diagnosis had. It made everything real in a way that paperwork never could.

I bought baby clothes for the first time on a random Tuesday afternoon. I stood in the aisle staring at tiny socks and felt completely unprepared for the life I was building.

I picked up things I thought I’d need. Put some back. Bought others anyway.

At night, when the apartment was quiet, I talked out loud.

Not prayers. Not speeches. Just words.

“I’m trying,” I said once, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right, but I’m trying.”

The baby kicked for the first time a week later.

I froze, hand flying to my stomach. It wasn’t painful. Just surprising. A small, solid reminder that I wasn’t imagining any of this.

I laughed, then cried, then sat there breathing until my heart slowed down.

That was when I stopped thinking of myself as someone who was running.

I wasn’t running anymore.

I was building something.

The delivery happened on a rainy night.

No emergencies. No chaos. Just long hours and pain that came in waves, each one demanding focus.

I held onto the side of the bed and breathed the way they told me to. I didn’t scream. I didn’t faint. I just endured.

When they placed my child in my arms, everything else faded.

I stared down at that small face and felt something settle inside me. Not happiness exactly. Something steadier. Stronger.

Relief.

I filled out the birth certificate alone.

When it came to the father’s name, my pen hovered for a second.

Then I left it blank.

No hesitation.

I named my child myself. I signed everything myself. Left the hospital without telling anyone except the friend who picked me up.

Life after that blurred together.

Sleepless nights. Feedings. Laundry that never ended. Days that felt endless and weeks that disappeared too fast. Some mornings I felt capable. Other mornings I cried in the bathroom because I hadn’t slept more than two hours.

But I managed.

We managed.

I didn’t follow Adrian’s life, but his name still found its way to me sometimes. News articles. Business updates.

Casual comments from people who didn’t know I had once shared a last name with him.

“He’s doing well,” someone said once during a work call. “Expanded overseas.”

I muted myself until my breathing steadied.

I didn’t miss him the way I expected to. Not constantly. Not the way I used to.

When I did think about him, it was distant. Like remembering a place you lived once but didn’t belong to anymore.

Then the email came.

I almost deleted it.

The subject line was vague. Professional. Nothing that hinted at danger.

Consultation Opportunity Confidential

I opened it without thinking too much about it. Read the details once. Then again.

The pay was good.

More than good. Enough to give me breathing room. Enough to stop living paycheck to paycheck.

Then I saw the company name.

Blackwood Enterprises.

My chest tightened.

I closed the laptop and walked away. Picked up my child. Hold them longer than necessary. Tried to calm the spike of fear that shot through me.

No.

Absolutely not.

I spent two days ignoring the email. Then a follow-up came in. Polite. Professional. Persistent.

I did the math. Rent. Childcare. Savings. The reality I’d been avoiding.

I couldn’t keep scraping by forever.

And I couldn’t keep hiding either.

I replied.

Short. Neutral. Professional.

The response came quickly.

Meeting date. Location.

New York.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Fear showed up first. Then anger. Then something steadier underneath.

I wasn’t the woman who left anymore.

I packed for the trip carefully. Not emotionally. Practically. I arranged childcare. Printed documents.

Prepared myself the way I always had before meetings.

The night before I left, I stood in front of the mirror and studied my reflection.

I looked different. Older.

Stronger in ways that didn’t show immediately.

“You can do this,” I told myself.

I didn’t know what would happen when I saw Adrian again.

But I knew one thing.

I wasn’t going back empty-handed.