We Divorced Now He Wants Me Back ( Billionaire Contract Wife)

The house was quiet when I returned.

The faint tick of the clock echoed through the wide, dimly lit living room.

Elijah sat on the couch, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. The city lights poured through the tall windows behind him, brushing against the sharp lines of his face.

He didn’t look up right away.

But I felt his eyes follow me the moment I stepped in.

I set my bag down by the stairs, keeping my voice steady. “I’m home.”

No response. Just the soft sound of ice clinking in his glass.

I didn’t wait for a greeting. I walked toward the kitchen, each step measured, calm. I’d long stopped expecting warmth.

Behind me, Elijah’s gaze lingered. He noticed.

How I didn’t ask if he’d eaten.

Didn’t ask if he wanted me to prepare anything.

Didn’t even glance in his direction.

She’s pretending I’m not here, he thought coldly.

His fingers tightened around the glass. She used to ask me everything — if I was tired, if I wanted dinner, if I was coming to bed. Now she moves like a stranger.

I filled a glass of water and drank quietly, my back turned to him.

She doesn’t even look anymore.

It’s like I’m invisible in my own house.

He leaned back slowly, his jaw tightening. He could tell she was keeping her distance deliberately, like she was playing a game.

Hard to get.

But Jenna didn’t look like a woman playing. Her eyes were hollow, her face pale from holding too much in.

When I walked past him again, he caught a faint trace of my perfume — familiar, clean, something that used to ground him. But tonight, it only made him restless.

She’s getting quiet. Too quiet.

For a long moment, he watched me walk away — no questions, no hesitation, no trace of the woman who used to wait by the door just to make sure he came home safe.

Now she just disappears.

His eyes dropped to his drink, the amber liquid catching the light

Let her keep pretending, he told himself.

Let her act indifferent.

It won’t last.

But as the sound of my footsteps faded up the stairs, his chest tightened unexpectedly — a flicker of something sharp and unfamiliar tightening inside him.

He didn’t understand it, didn’t want to.

He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.

She’s really not going to say a word.

When he opened them again, the stairs were empty.

The house felt colder.

He lifted his glass, finishing what was left, letting the burn trail down his throat.

Maybe silence was what she wanted.

Fine. She could have it.

Yet as the quiet stretched through the room, he found himself listening — waiting — for the soft sound of her door closing upstairs.

And when it finally came, he realized he’d been holding his breath.