Our seventh wedding anniversary.

I sat at the dining table—alone.

My phone buzzed, lighting up with two messages.

First, from Tom: [Working late at the office tonight.]

Second, anonymous: [Tom is incredible. Can you even keep up?]

Attached was a picture of him, lips locked with a woman I didn't recognize.

I blew out the candles on the anniversary cake.

Eyes shut, I typed back:

[Let's divorce.]

Our seventh wedding anniversary.

I sat at the dining table—alone.

My phone buzzed, lighting up with two messages.

First, from Tom: [Working late at the office tonight.]

Second, anonymous: [Tom is incredible. Can you even keep up?]

Attached was a picture of him, lips locked with a woman I didn't recognize.

I blew out the candles on the anniversary cake, my chest hollow. No reply from him. Typical. Probably "working overtime" in someone else's bed.

Outside, the weather was just as miserable—cold, drizzling, and perfect for making my knees ache worse than usual.

At the print shop, the guy handing me the divorce papers hesitated. "You should think this through before making rash decisions."

I forced a smile, clutching the papers. "I've thought about it long enough."

Long enough.

Tom's secretary—the homewrecker—had been pulling every trick in the book to push my buttons.

It worked—for a while. She drove me to hysterics, paranoia, and desperation. But now? I was done. She could have the title of Mrs. Luke. It meant nothing to me anymore.

That night, I waited for Tom.

At two a.m., he finally stumbled in, reeking of wine. His shirt had lipstick smudges, and a strand of long hair clung to his jacket. He froze when he saw the untouched dinner on the table—then noticed the divorce papers.

I'd been fighting insomnia for weeks but had just dozed off when he shook me awake.

"Selene, stop this nonsense," he snapped, waving the papers in my face. His tone was heavy with exasperation. "Why do you have to turn to this every time? Do you even care what this would do to my reputation? I've told you—she's nothing. Just a fling."

I stared at him, and for the first time, he felt like a total stranger. How had I ever fallen for this man?

Something shifted in me, and my voice came out steady. "Tom, I mean it. I want a divorce."

He scoffed, like the idea was absurd. "You think you're still the Spencer family princess? You can't even have kids, Selene, and I've never thrown that in your face. So what if I have women on the side? It's not like I'm parading them—"

I cut him off. "But I do care, Tom. And I'm done pretending I don't."

We went in circles all night, the fight dragging on with no real end.

By morning, he left for work. I stayed behind, Googling how to file a contested divorce.

My phone buzzed, an unknown number flashing on the screen.

When I answered, a silky, smug voice came through. "Mrs. Luke, this is Fonda. We should talk."

My grip tightened on the phone, but my words stayed cool. "Alright. Where and when?"

...

We met at a café near Tom's office.

I'll give her this—Fonda Dixe was gorgeous.

Black hair tumbled down in loose waves, fading into fiery red at the tips. Those curves, those eyes—she had that kind of vibe.

She was bold, magnetic, exciting.

I was... average. Quiet. Predictable.

She didn't bother with pleasantries. As soon as she sat down, her voice cut like a knife. "As a wife, you're a joke. Can't even keep your husband. Honestly, I'm embarrassed for you."

Before I could respond, she slapped a prenatal checkup report onto the table.

"I'm having Tom's baby. Step aside and let me take your place."

I didn't flinch. Didn't even look at the report. Just stirred my coffee like nothing happened. "You should talk to Tom about that."

Fonda leaned in, her voice dropping as her eyes darted toward the window. "Oh, he'll know soon enough."

Then, out of nowhere, she stumbled back, knocking my coffee over. The steaming liquid splashed all over her outfit, leaving her looking like a soggy damsel in distress.

"Fonda!" Tom's voice snapped through the café as he rushed in to help her up.

His eyes landed on the prenatal report, and his face froze. "You're pregnant?"

Fonda's tears started flowing instantly. "I didn't want the baby to grow up illegitimate. I only asked your wife to accept the child... I shouldn't have..."

Smack!

The slap came so fast I barely registered it.

"Enough, Selene!" Tom shouted, his eyes full of disgust. "What's wrong with you? How did you turn into this?"

My cheek throbbed, and the buzzing in my ears drowned out his words.

Without thinking, I grabbed Fonda's untouched coffee and hurled it at the two of them.

"Get out!"

Fonda's little stunt wasn't for nothing—Tom and I finally got divorced.

The asset division was fast. Tom did everything to cut my share as much as possible, but I didn't bother fighting. I threw a few clothes into a suitcase, dragged it to the door, and left.

"Selene, you'll regret this!" he yelled.

I paused, glanced back with a calm smile, and said, "I've been regretting it for years."

Then I walked out, never looking back.

Of course, it started raining.

My knees ached, the kind of sharp, biting pain that made my eyes water.

Seven years ago, I was a headline: [Spencer Heiress Breaks Off Engagement for Love]. A spoiled rich girl giving it all up for her college sweetheart—a classic romance.

Seven years later? Tom was a self-made success, a name people respected. And me? I was walking out with nothing but a battered heart and an empty suitcase.

It was ridiculous. No, beyond ridiculous.

Back in college, Tom had been this shy, hardworking top student. Meanwhile, I was the elegant, untouchable heiress who never lifted a finger. Even something as basic as getting a snack from a food stall? I had someone else do it for me.

Tom used to run errands for anyone who'd pay, and I was no exception. I figured tossing him little delivery jobs was my way of offering "dignified help."

But after a while, I noticed the way he acted around me.

The "accidental" run-ins. The stolen glances that darted away the second I noticed. His diary, filled with my name scribbled over and over.

Even the way he'd sit silently, sulking, when I talked to other guys. His frustration and jealousy were almost cute, and honestly? I liked teasing him.

He was different—more interesting than my fiancé, that was for sure.

I'd had plenty of admirers, but Tom stood out. He loved me more, cared more, noticed every little thing about me.

One sweltering summer afternoon, he showed up in this ridiculous mascot costume, handing out raffle tickets. I scratched one off and hit the grand prize.

Grinning, I pulled off the giant mascot head. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and his startled eyes met mine.

I kissed him right there. That's how it all started.

It wasn't some quiet, secret thing. My family went to war trying to break us apart. We felt like Romeo and Juliet, fighting the world for our love.

I called off my engagement to Tyler Saun, my fiancé, without hesitation. I told him my heart was already taken. Tyler didn't argue, didn't even put up a fight—he just walked away.

My family didn't take it so quietly. They disowned me, threw me out, told me I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

But I stood by Tom.

We started his business together, crammed into a tiny, damp basement. We lived on canned beans, splitting whatever we could scrape together.

Winters were brutal. No heat, no insulation. The cold seemed to settle into my bones and never left.

After months of sleepless nights and endless work, I noticed blood one morning. By the time I realized what had happened, it was too late.

I'd lost the baby I hadn't even known was there.

And I could never have children again.

It was just one more thing to carry—like the stabbing pain in my knees that never really went away. Just another mark of how worn out my body had become.

Nothing special. Nothing worth remembering.

I wandered down the streets, the rain making my knees ache with every step. No big plans, just a vague idea: find a motel for the night, then figure out a job and maybe an apartment. Solid life plan, right?

Digging through my wallet, I was counting my meager cash when something caught my eye—a membership card. Soirée. Back in the day, it was my stomping ground as the Spencer family heiress. High-end, exclusive, dripping in luxury. Tom used it for business schmoozing later on, but I hadn't set foot there in years.

The card gave access to private rooms. Could I crash there? On a couch? The idea made me snort. At sixteen, I'd stacked champagne glasses there to celebrate piano wins. Now I was scheming how to freeload for the night.

I hopped on a bus and headed to the club. Inside, it was all sparkle and shine, with glitzy carpets and chandeliers. My rain-soaked clothes stuck out like a sore thumb, but the receptionist didn't blink. Polite, professional.

The room wasn't huge, but hey, it had a couch. That was enough for me.

A staff member grabbed my suitcase and led me down the hall. The place was dead quiet—those soundproofed walls really worked—except for one door up ahead that hadn't shut all the way. Laughter spilled out, loud and careless, breaking the stillness.

Once in my room, I unpacked in record time and headed to the front desk to ask for a blanket. I didn't make it far.

I slammed straight into Tom.

His tie was loosened, his face flushed, and he reeked of alcohol. Clearly, he'd stepped out for air, though his wobbly stance said it wasn't helping. The second he saw me, he froze, then smirked.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "You file for divorce, and now you're chasing me down? Second thoughts already?"

I kept moving, brushing past him, but he grabbed my wrist.

He was drunk, his sneer turning mean. "What's your angle now, Selene? Playing hard to get? How low can you sink?"

Yanking my hand free, I glared. "If you're that full of yourself, maybe get professional help."

But he didn't back off. He shoved me against the wall, his grip tightening as I twisted to escape. In the struggle, I accidentally pushed open the already cracked door next to us.

Inside, the noise was deafening. Someone was mid-shout: "Tonight, we're gathered here to celebrate—"

And then, a voice cut through, cold and commanding. "What's going on here?"

The man in the center of the room stood, his sharp gaze locking on me like a spotlight.

The room went dead silent. Every eye turned to me.

Mortified by all the attention, I planted my hands on the carpet, trying to steady myself as I got up. The second I stood, my vision blurred, and the room spun. I swayed, feeling like a total mess.

Before I could catch my balance, Tom grabbed my arm.

He'd always been a disaster when drunk—loud, mean, and unpredictable. Tonight was no different. His grip bit into my arm, and his words stung even more.

"Already moved on to your next man, Selene?" he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.

I frowned, trying to shake him off, but then my focus landed on someone in the room.

Tyler Saun.

My memories of Tyler were frozen seven years ago—a quiet, painfully proper guy.

After my sixteenth birthday, he'd been introduced as my fiancé. No sparks, no epic love story. Just two families shaking hands over an arrangement.

Tyler always gave thoughtful gifts, and I'd nod politely, sending back equally bland thank-yous. He was perfect for an arranged marriage. Stable, predictable. But back then, I was chasing love.

And now? Here I was—soaked, disheveled, dragged down by Tom—standing in front of him like my mistakes had been gift-wrapped for comparison. The sharp contrast between Tyler and the mess I'd made of my life wasn't lost on me.

Before I could speak, Tyler stepped forward.

He hadn't been drinking. He stood there, sharp and composed, a far cry from the boy I remembered. The traces of softness I once knew were replaced by a commanding edge that could silence a room.

The moment he spoke, it was all about standing up for me. "The best kind of ex-husband is a dead one. Don't you know when to stop humiliating yourself?"

Before Tom could respond, Tyler grabbed his wrist. He forced him to let go of me, then calmly pulled me behind him, shielding me.

"You and Selene are divorced," Tyler said. "What right do you have to lay a hand on her? What you're doing now—it's called harassment."

Tom didn't miss a beat. "And what about you?" he shot back.

Tyler paused for a moment, then smiled. It wasn't soft or reassuring—it was sly, almost cocky.

"You already said it," Tyler replied, "Her next man. Her new flame. Her current boyfriend."