Divorcing the Heiress? Bad Idea.

"Will you marry me?"

When I heard the proposal, I'd thought it was a miracle.

I'd thought my persistence had finally broken through his walls. I'd cried tears of joy and said yes, yes, *yes*, a thousand times yes.

Five years of rejection, five years of wondering what was wrong with me, and suddenly—*finally*—it was over.

He wanted me. He chose me.

The next three months blurred together in a whirlwind of wedding preparations. I threw myself into planning with the same relentless energy I'd poured into pursuing Evan.

Engagement party at the Whitmore estate. Meeting his handful of friends, introducing him to mine. Cake tastings, flower selections, venue bookings.

My friends had surrounded me with congratulations, their faces glowing with genuine happiness for what they called my 'persistence paying off.'

'You never gave up,' my college roommate had gushed, squeezing my hands as she admired my engagement ring. 'Five years, Lia. Five years of believing in love when everyone else would have walked away. You're living proof that true love conquers all.'

I'd basked in their praise, in the validation that my years of devotion hadn't been wasted.

Even my parents, initially skeptical about Evan's background, had warmed to him once they saw how happy he made me—or how happy I thought he made me.

Though there were also a few notes of concern, like the one my big sister Margaret gave me—I could still recall how she raised an eyebrow at the speed but said nothing, only insisting—firmly—that I have a prenuptial agreement drawn up.

And, of course, Chris Vanderwall.

Chris and I had been rivals since childhood—our parents constantly comparing us, pushing us to outdo each other. Academic competitions, social events, even stupid things like who got better grades in piano lessons. We'd fought our way through elementary school, high school, college. The fact that he'd become a successful lawyer while I'd chosen to work in the family's charitable foundation had only given our parents more ammunition for comparison.

So when he'd opposed me, I wasn’t even surprised.

He’d shown up at my apartment three days after I'd posted the engagement announcement, his lawyer's briefcase in hand and his expression grim.

"Don't marry him," he'd said without preamble.

I'd stared at him, already feeling my temper rise.

"Excuse me?"

"Five years, Lia." His voice was sharp, clinical. "Five years he said no to you. And suddenly, overnight, he proposes? Don't you think that's strange?"

"People change," I'd snapped. "Maybe he finally realized what he was missing."

"Or maybe something else changed." Chris had pulled out a folder, setting it on my coffee table. "I'm not saying this to hurt you. I'm saying it because something doesn't add up."

I'd refused to look at whatever he'd brought. "You just can't stand seeing me happy, can you? God forbid Lia Whitmore gets her fairy tale ending while perfect Chris Vanderwall is still single."

His jaw had tightened. "This isn't about me."

"It's always about you," I'd said bitterly. "Get out."

He'd left the folder on my table anyway. I'd thrown it away without opening it.

But his words had nagged at me enough that when Margaret insisted on the prenup and brought it up to me for three whole times, I'd agreed readily.

Chris was a petty, competitive bastard who'd probably just been trying to ruin my happiness, but he *was* a lawyer. And lawyers thought about protection.

Besides, what did it matter? Evan and I would be together forever. Love didn't need protection, the prenup was just paper.

Then, after three months of fierce joy and bustling chaotic preparations, finally came our wedding.

The wedding itself was beautiful—spring flowers, two hundred guests, my dress a cascade of ivory silk. It was everything I dreamt of. Evan had looked handsome in his tuxedo, and when he said "I do,"

I'd thought I might burst from happiness.

Now thinking back, there were signs I might have ignored or been blinded to, for example, during our honeymoon, some moments—small, fleeting moments—I'd catch Evan staring at nothing, his expression distant and hollow. When I'd ask what he was thinking, he'd smile and say "nothing" or "just tired.,"

But I'd let it go. He was reserved by nature. I'd known that from the beginning—or that was how I convinced myself.

I'd told myself he just needed time to adjust. Marriage was a big step. He'd spent five years pushing me away; of course it would take him a while to fully let me in.

When we returned home and I found out I was pregnant two months later, I'd been overjoyed.

Evan had gone quiet when I showed him the test, but then he'd nodded and said, "That's good," and I'd chosen to believe him.

I'd chosen to believe so many things.

Now, sitting in my living room with divorce papers scattered at my feet, Chris’ warning and Margaret’s firmness echoed in my skull like curses.

*Don't you think that's strange?*

*At least you need a prenup to make sure things are safe for you.*

Sarah's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "Mr. Miller, your wife is carrying your child. You can't just—"

"I'm not responsible for her suffocating infatuation," Evan interrupted, his tone cold and dismissive. "I never asked for any of this."

Something inside me snapped.

"Suffocating?" The word ripped out of me, raw and jagged. I pushed myself off the sofa, my hands shaking. "I loved you! I gave you *everything*—five years of my life, my heart, my—"

"And I never wanted it," he said flatly.

Tears blurred my vision, but I refused to let them fall.

No. Not in front of him.

"Then why?" My voice cracked, desperation bleeding through despite my efforts to stay composed. "If you didn't want me, if you never loved me, then why did you *propose*?"

For the first time since he'd walked through that door, Evan hesitated. His jaw worked, and something flickered across his face—guilt? No. Regret, maybe.

But not for me.

"Because," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "I needed someone. And you were there."

The room tilted again. My hand found the back of the sofa, gripping it to keep myself upright.

"What does that mean?" I whispered.

Evan's eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the truth before he even spoke it.

"It means you were convenient."