His Unwanted Wife Is A Tech Zillionaire

Christoper had finished drafting the divorce agreement. She leaned against the window and gazed out at the estate grounds. A car was driving up the road. It was Edmund and Camilla, coming home.

The cheerful voice of the little girl drifted up from downstairs. After a while, the door to the master bedroom opened. Edmund tossed his keys and a jacket that smelled of dust and exhaust onto a velvet armchair. He saw Christoper standing calmly by the window. His eyebrows arched in faint annoyance.

"Why are you still up?"

His tone was the same one he used for a junior analyst who had overstayed their welcome.

Christoper's voice was a flat line. "I was waiting for you. It's our anniversary."

He paused, the act of unfastening his cufflink freezing for a second. He had forgotten. A flicker of something—not quite guilt, more like inconvenience—crossed his face.

"Oh, sorry," he said, the apology empty. "Had an important test run. Lost track of time."

He offered no further details. No explanation of the test, or who was with him. It was as if his wife had no right to know.

Christoper took a single step forward, a final, futile attempt. "Edmund, we need to talk. About us. About this family."

Edmund was about to say something when his phone rang.

The name 'Janessa' glowed brightly on the screen. He immediately held up a hand to Christoper, a gesture demanding silence.

He answered the call, turning toward the balcony. His voice, when he spoke, was transformed. It was warm, gentle.

"Janessa? Is the data backed up? ... No, you did great. For a first time on the track, that performance was beyond my expectations."

Christoper stood frozen, a statue in her own bedroom. She listened to her husband praise another woman with an enthusiasm she had never known. She was an eavesdropper at their intimate debriefing.

The door creaked open. Camilla, in her small pajamas, padded into the room.

She ran straight to the balcony door, waiting for her father, without so much as a glance at her mother.

Edmund ended the call and turned, scooping Camilla into his arms. He kissed her cheek. "My little champion. Did you have fun watching Auntie Janessa drive today?"

Camilla nodded fiercely, her arms wrapped around Edmund's neck. "Yes! Daddy, Auntie Janessa is the best! She's like a superhero in the movies!"

The words were a small, sharp prick to Christoper's heart, but her face remained impassive. She was responsible for Camilla's meals, her schooling, her health. All of it erased by a single afternoon of speed and noise.

Camilla burrowed her face into her father's neck. Her voice was small, innocent, and utterly devastating.

"Daddy, I love Auntie Janessa so much. Can she be my new mom?"

The air in the room solidified.

Edmund's smile froze. His eyes darted to Christoper, a reflexive, panicked glance. It was the first time he had truly looked at her since he walked in.

Christoper's gaze was fixed on a point in the distance, her expression vacant. As if she hadn't heard. But Edmund saw her hand by her side. Her fist was clenched, obviously suppressing her feelings.

A wave of unfamiliar irritation washed over him. He set Camilla down.

"Don't say silly things, sweetheart," he muttered, his voice strained. He called for the nanny to take her to bed.

The room fell silent again. Only the two of them remained.

Edmund cleared his throat, attempting an explanation. "She's just a kid, Chris. She doesn't understand anything. You don't have to..."

"You don't have to explain," Christoper cut him off. Her voice was the calm surface of a deep, cold lake.

She turned and walked out of the room. She didn't look back.

Her identity as 'wife' and 'mother' had been dismantled by the innocent, cruel words of a child.

Edmund watched her go, a sense of frustration he couldn't name rising in his chest. He was used to her quiet compliance. This cold, resolute departure was something new. Something he didn't control. The feeling unsettled him.

Christoper went to the library. She sat down at the computer, opened an encrypted email client.

The recipient was a single name: "Arthur Vance". Her family's lawyer. A man whose loyalty was to the Blackburn name, not the Hamiltons.

She attached the divorce agreement she had drafted earlier.

The body of the email contained only three words: "Arthur, it's time."

The subject line was a direct command.

"Divorce. Immediate Execution."