The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife and Son

So I changed tactics, set a trap, and got him to sign a divorce agreement with a thirty-day cooling-off period.

Day twenty-seven finally came, and our son called him Mr. James of his own accord.

As we walked out through the lobby of the riding club, Harry surfaced from his shock at last.

He hurried after us, a few quick strides, reaching to catch our son and demand an explanation.

But before he could touch the boy, Vivien's call came again, timed to the second.

Through the receiver, the woman's voice cracked, weak and helpless.

"Harry! Howie got into a fight at school and he's hurt, he won't stop crying for his dad, I don't know what to do anymore..."

Harry's steps stopped dead.

He watched our retreating backs, the distance my son and I had already put between us and him, and something struggled behind his eyes.

In the end he only gripped the phone tighter and said, low, "I understand. I'm on my way."

He fired off a quick text, "I'll explain tonight," then turned and crossed to the Maybach idling at the curb in long, rapid strides.

As the roar of the engine faded into the distance, our son suddenly stopped walking in the dim underground garage, turned, and threw himself into my arms.

Tears came down in heavy drops, soaking through my couture gown in an instant.

He sobbed, and in a voice that was very small yet very certain, he said to me,

"Mom, let's not have a dad anymore, okay?"

We never took the family portrait. I brought our son straight back to the riverside mansion.

Upstairs I dragged out the large suitcase and started packing his clothes.

I had just opened my phone to book the flights back to L.A. when Vivien's private message popped up, timed to the second.

It was a photo, freshly taken, and the backdrop was the very appointment-only studio we'd walked out of a few minutes earlier.

In the frame, Vivien wore an elegant white gown.

Harry stood in a crisp herringbone suit, Howie laughing in his arms.

The whole picture of a wealthy family, devoted and complete.

Beneath it ran a single line of text, sharp enough to sting.

【It's just a family portrait, isn't it? Whenever I want, the three of us are a family.】

The old me would never have let a provocation like that slide. I'd have hunted Harry down and made him explain himself.

But just then, watching our son piece together his custom supercar model on the carpet, lost to everything else, I felt nothing but a sudden, flat tiredness.

I calmly closed the chat and booked the flights for three days out.

I'd just finished paying when the sound of someone changing shoes came from the entryway.

Harry pushed the door open, and in his hand, of all things, was a beautifully boxed layered fruit cream cake.

Our son and I both froze, caught off guard.

Harry had always loathed the smell of that dessert, to the point of open disgust.

That was exactly why, no matter how badly our son craved it, on his birthdays we'd only ever dared to indulge Harry's taste and order the bitter dark chocolate cake.

And today this all-conquering CEO had stooped to buy the very food he despised most?

Our son and I traded a glance. It was just absurd.

Harry came closer, slow, and when he made out the open suitcases spread across the middle of the living room, his gaze darkened.

"Howie fell apart earlier. I stayed to calm him down a while. I passed a dessert shop on the way and remembered you two like this, so I bought it."

He loosened his tie, his voice low.

"What's all the packing for? Going somewhere to unwind?"

I lowered my lashes and nodded along with him.

Three days left in the cooling-off period. I couldn't be bothered to start another fight.

Seeing me nod, the tension visibly left Harry's shoulders.

He crouched down, bringing himself level with our son, and into his voice came something rare, a soft, coaxing warmth.