My Ex-Husband Tried Remarrying Me for Millions

Three days after the rain, my phone lit up with a name I hadn't expected.

Nicolas Gibson.

Dylan's best friend since college. The guy who stood beside him at our wedding. The one who always texted me happy birthday, even after the divorce.

*Can we meet? Just you and me. There's something you need to know.*

I stared at the screen. My first thought was that Dylan sent him. Some new angle. Some fresh approach to whatever game we were still playing.

I almost said no.

But I went.

The café was tucked away near the waterfront, the kind of place tourists never find. Small tables. Scratched wood. Windows that faced the gray stretch of Elliott Bay. I got there first and ordered tea I didn't drink.

Nicolas arrived ten minutes later. He was already pulling at his hair before he sat down. Over and over. Like his hand couldn't stay still.

He looked tired.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

I didn't say anything. I just waited.

He exhaled. Looked at his coffee. Looked back up.

"I should've done this sooner."

My chest tightened.

"Done what?"

He leaned forward. Elbows on the table. Hands folded like he was confessing something in church.

"Dylan's grandmother. Eleanor. You remember her trust fund?"

I nodded slowly. Everyone knew about it. Old money. Locked up tight until certain conditions were met. Dylan never talked about the details.

"There's a clause," Nicolas said. "A specific one. Eleanor put it in years ago, before she died."

He paused. Rubbed his face.

"If Dylan remarries you before a set deadline, the money transfers to him. All of it. Over a hundred million."

The air in the café went thin.

"And if he doesn't?"

Nicolas met my eyes.

"Then it goes to you. The whole thing. Automatically."

I sat very still.

"When's the deadline?"

"Four days from now."

Four days.

I thought about the courthouse. The rain. The hours I stood there like an idiot.

I thought about the video. Dylan on his knees. Aliana's dress.

I thought about the group chat message.

*Leave her on read a few times and she'll fall in line.*

Nicolas kept talking.

"The whole reconciliation thing. The texts. The flowers. The late-night calls where he cried and said he couldn't live without you." He stopped. Swallowed. "It was all for the money, Serena. Every single word."

I didn't move.

"He has a strategy. He and Aliana. They've been planning this for months. Get you to sign the papers before the deadline. Then drag out the actual relationship until they can figure out a clean exit. She knew the whole time."

My hands were flat on the table. I watched them like they belonged to someone else.

"Why are you telling me this?"

He looked down.

"Because I was in the group chat. I saw the messages. I saw him laughing about it. And I didn't say anything." His voice cracked. "I didn't say anything, and I should have. A long time ago."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table.

"That's the name of a trust attorney. Someone outside the Armstrong circle. She'll confirm everything I just told you."

I looked at the paper. I didn't pick it up.

Nicolas stood. He pulled a twenty from his wallet and set it beside his untouched coffee.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know that doesn't fix it. But I'm sorry."

He left.

I sat there a long time. The tea went cold. The paper sat between my hands.

Finally, I picked it up.

---

The next morning, someone knocked on my apartment door.

I knew who it was before I opened it.

Dylan stood in the hallway holding a coffee cup with my name written on the side in black marker. Single-origin Ethiopian. The kind I only drink on good days. In his other hand, a paper bag from the bakery three blocks over. The one I told him about once, two years ago, and he remembered.

He smiled.

"Hey."

I stepped back. Let him in.

He set the coffee on the counter. Opened the bag. Pulled out a croissant. Still warm.

"I'm sorry about the other day," he said. "Something came up. Work thing. I couldn't get away."

I leaned against the counter. Watched him.

"We can reschedule," he continued. "This week. Tomorrow, even. I cleared my calendar. We'll go to the courthouse, get it done, and then—"

"Eleanor's trust," I said.

He stopped mid-sentence.

"What?"

"The clause. The one that says if you remarry me before the deadline, you get a hundred million dollars."

The air changed.

Dylan's face didn't move. But something behind his eyes shifted. Something that had been performing went very, very still.

"And if you don't," I continued, "it goes to me instead."

The coffee sat between us. Steam rising. Untouched.

"The deadline's in four days," I said. "Midnight. Isn't it?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

I watched the performance drain out of him like water from a cracked glass. Watched his shoulders drop. Watched his jaw tighten.

Watched him become, for the first time in months, exactly who he was.

"Serena—"

"Get out."

His hand moved toward me. I stepped back.

"Get out of my apartment, Dylan."

He didn't move.

"We can talk about this. We can—"

"No," I said. "We can't."

I walked to the door. Opened it.

He stood there a long time. Looking at me. Looking at the coffee. Looking at the space where his script used to work.

Finally, he walked out.

I closed the door.

I locked it.

I poured the coffee down the sink and watched it swirl away.

Then I picked up my phone and called the attorney.