Moved Out For His Mistress

The divorce papers arrived the next morning, delivered by a courier who looked apologetic for interrupting what he probably assumed was a normal Tuesday breakfast.

I signed for the envelope with steady hands, noting how Caspian didn't even glance up from his phone. Vivienne sat beside him at what used to be my breakfast nook, buttering toast with the casual familiarity of someone who'd already moved in permanently.

"That was fast," I said, running my finger along the law firm's embossed letterhead.

Caspian finally looked up, his expression businesslike. "I had Morrison & Associates draft everything yesterday. No point dragging this out."

No point. Three years of marriage, and there was no point in dragging out its dissolution.

I opened the envelope and scanned the documents. The settlement was laid out in cold, legal language: one downtown apartment, fifty thousand dollars, and a complete release of any claim to Caspian's assets or future earnings.

"Fifty thousand?" I looked up at him. "That's it?"

"That's generous," Caspian replied, his tone suggesting I should be grateful. "Considering you haven't worked in three years. Haven't contributed anything meaningful to our financial situation."

Vivienne made a soft sound of agreement, dabbing her lips with my grandmother's linen napkin. "Caspian's being incredibly fair, Thessaly. Most men wouldn't be so understanding about... well, about supporting someone for so long."

Supporting someone. As if I'd been a charity case rather than his wife.

"The apartment is in a decent neighborhood," Caspian continued, already turning back to his phone. "You'll be comfortable there. It's more than most women in your position could expect."

My position. The position of a woman who'd given up everything to build a life with a man who now spoke about me like I was a business expense he was finally ready to write off.

I flipped through the pages, noting the meticulous way every shared memory had been reduced to dollar amounts and property divisions. The wedding china would stay with the house. The artwork I'd chosen would remain. Even the books on our shelves—books I'd read, loved, discussed with him during those early days when he'd actually listened to my thoughts—would stay behind.

"There's one more thing," Vivienne said, her voice taking on that falsely sympathetic tone I'd learned to dread. "Caspian and I... well, we wanted you to hear this from us first."

She reached across the table and placed her hand over his, the gesture so practiced it made my stomach turn.

"We're planning to make our relationship public once the divorce is finalized," she continued. "We didn't want you to be blindsided by seeing it in the society pages."

How considerate of them.

"We've been trying to be respectful," Caspian added, though he still wouldn't meet my eyes. "But there's no point in hiding anymore. Vivienne understands my world in ways that... well, in ways that work better for everyone."

My world. The world I'd once moved through with confidence, before I'd let him convince me I didn't belong there.

"Thessaly," Vivienne leaned forward, her expression a masterpiece of false concern. "I hope you understand that this isn't personal. You're a lovely person, truly. But Caspian needs someone who can match his ambitions, someone who understands the social requirements of his position. You've always been more... domestic. There's nothing wrong with that, but it's just not what he needs anymore."

Domestic. The word hit like a slap, designed to make me feel small and insignificant.

"You'll be happier this way," she continued. "Free to find someone more... suitable to your lifestyle. Someone who appreciates the simple things."

Simple things. Like the crown jewels I'd designed for three different royal families. Like the pieces that had graced the necks of Hollywood royalty and European aristocracy. Simple things.

I looked down at the papers again, at the signature lines waiting for my agreement to this dissolution. For a moment, I felt the familiar urge to argue, to defend myself, to explain what they were so casually dismissing.

Then I remembered the phone call from Harrison. The estate. The life I'd abandoned.

I picked up the pen.

"Thessaly," Caspian said, and for just a moment, his voice carried a hint of something that might have been uncertainty. "You don't have to sign today. Take time to think about it. Make sure you understand what you're agreeing to."

I looked up at him, this man I'd loved enough to disappear for. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his suit impeccable, his expression carefully neutral. But there was something in his eyes—a flicker of doubt, perhaps, or maybe just the faintest recognition that he was making a mistake.

"I understand perfectly," I said, signing my name with deliberate care. "You're getting exactly what you want, Caspian. And so am I."

His brow furrowed slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I set down the pen and looked at him directly for the first time in months. "It means you're going to regret this."

Caspian's laugh was sharp and dismissive. "Regret what? Divorcing a woman who's done nothing but take up space for three years? A woman who's completely dependent on me for everything?" He shook his head. "Thessaly, what could you possibly do that would make me regret anything?"

I smiled then, a real smile for the first time in years. "I guess you'll find out."

Twenty minutes later, I stood on the front steps of the house that had been my prison for three years, a single suitcase in my hand. Everything else I was leaving behind—the clothes that had never quite fit right, the books I'd stopped reading, the life I'd tried so hard to make work.

A car waited at the curb. Not the taxi I'd called, but a sleek black Rolls-Royce with tinted windows.

The driver stepped out as I approached, a distinguished man in his sixties who moved with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to serving people of importance.

"Miss Mercer," he said, his voice carrying decades of refined service. "It's an honor to finally bring you home."

Miss Mercer. Not Mrs. Mills. Not Caspian's wife. Not the diminished woman who'd signed those papers twenty minutes ago.

I slid into the back seat, feeling the butter-soft leather embrace me like a welcome. As we pulled away from the curb, I caught a glimpse of Vivienne at the front window, her perfect composure cracking just slightly as she watched the Rolls-Royce disappear down the street.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized but never dared to call.

"Dorian," I said when the familiar voice answered. "It's time to come home. And Dorian? Terminate all contracts with Sterling Group. Effective immediately."

The silence on the other end was brief, followed by a sound that might have been relief.

"Welcome back, Your Majesty," he said softly. "The kingdom has been waiting."