The CEO's Unread Divorce

"I'm not at the office," I said, my voice level.

"Not at the office?" Julian's voice dropped. "It's the middle of the workday, Blair. Where the hell are you? An unauthorized absence means a pay deduction. That's policy."

"I know, but I've already—"

I was about to say I'd quit when Savannah's sickly-sweet voice chirped through the phone.

"Julian, honey, don't be so hard on her. If Blair doesn't feel up to it, I can take care of it."

Julian's tone softened instantly, the venom he’d used with me just seconds before completely gone. "Absolutely not. you were up late working. You need to rest today."

Savannah feigned politeness. "I'm not tired—"

Julian cut her off. "I'm the boss. I order you to rest. End of discussion."

Savannah let out a delicate giggle. "I just feel so bad for Blair. It must be a lot for her to handle."

Julian scoffed. "You think she works harder than you? You're out there winning contracts while she's just pushing paper. Besides, she's my wife—practically a co-owner. It's her duty to pull her weight."

And just like that, with one casual remark, he erased years of my hard work.

No anger, no jealousy, no heartbreak.

Just a profound numbness.

I had been through this too many times to count.

Julian took my silence as agreement, and his voice softened again.

"Blair, do you really think I'm just piling on tasks? I'm trying to develop you. You're my wife; you should have a stronger sense of ownership in this company. Learn from Savannah—she worked until four in the morning last night. I've never met a woman with so much drive and talent."

Savannah let out a practiced little laugh. "I think Blair is brilliant, too."

She said the words, but the pity in her tone was unmistakable.

Julian, completely oblivious, chuckled along with her. "I'd be grateful if she were half as brilliant as you. You've handled all the major projects this year."

They played their parts perfectly, a well-rehearsed duet.

I remained silent. It wasn't worth the breath.

Every single one of those so-called "major projects" had been mine before he handed them off to Savannah. Julian knew it, but he pretended he didn't. After five years of marriage, he truly believed I would tolerate anything.

"Anyway," he said dismissively, "Savannah and I have an important dinner tonight. Get this done and send it over as soon as possible."

Click. He hung up before I could utter another word.

Two minutes later, my phone buzzed with a notification.

Another new post from Savannah.

A Michelin-starred restaurant in Florence. Her head rested sweetly on Julian's shoulder. In front of them sat an exquisite little blue box from Tiffany's, just the right size for a ring.

I scrolled down to her post from the night before—four in the morning at a winery in Tuscany. Fine wine, hazy laughter, an intimate atmosphere.

So that was her "hard work"—a five-star vacation.

And that "important dinner"?

A date.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I didn't have the energy for anger anymore. It was pointless.

What was the point in questioning him? He always had a ready-made excuse. If I confronted him with proof, all I'd get was silence—no apology, no guilt, just the cold shoulder he wielded like a weapon.

And every single time, I was the one left to pick up the pieces.