The Billionaire's Broken Bride

Six years after my divorce, I ran into Paul Gilbert on a rainy street corner.

The contrast was brutal. He stepped out of a luxury sedan, shielded by an umbrella, draped in a bespoke overcoat. I stood in the downpour in a grease-stained apron, clutching soggy flyers for a dumpling shop.

His gaze swept over me—cold, mocking.

"This is what you've been reduced to since leaving me?"

I forced a professional smile. "We have fresh dumplings and noodles. Would you like to order?"

He scoffed. "This is your retribution, Serena. After everything you did, do you finally regret it?"

My knuckles whitened around my apron.

Regret? Of course. But not for the reasons he believed.

My only regret was my youth—pestering our families until they agreed to our engagement. That was the mistake that ruined everything.

——

Inside the cramped shop, Paul ordered dumplings. His dark eyes tracked my every move.

I ignored him. Wiped tables. Swept floors. Hauled trash.

Six years had transformed me. No longer the pampered Whitmore heiress. No longer the lofty Mrs. Gilbert. Survival had taught me humility.

"How much does she earn here?" Paul asked the owner.

The man paused, glancing between Paul's designer suit and my worn clothes.

"Two thousand five hundred a month," I answered. "Includes meals."

I checked the clock and untied my apron. "Boss, my shift's over."

He handed me a bag of vegetables. "Make something nice for your daughter."

Clatter.

Paul's chopsticks hit the floor. "You remarried? You have a child?"

"She's adopted," the owner said proudly. "Serena has a heart of gold."

I offered no explanation and headed for the door.

During our marriage, the stress had destroyed my health. Doctors said I'd likely never conceive. When I found my daughter, I took her in. Two broken souls who became family.

Outside, the rain had turned vicious. The last bus was gone.

I calculated: subway didn't reach my district, taxi would cost a fortune. Walking meant saving money for my daughter's treats.

I opened my umbrella and stepped into the storm.

A hand clamped around my wrist.

"I'll drive you."

Paul's grip was iron. His expression—disgust mixed with something I couldn't name.

I stepped back. "No need. Thank you, Mr. Gilbert."

He didn't ask again. He dragged me to the Rolls-Royce, shoved me into the back seat, and tossed his umbrella at my feet.

The car pulled into traffic.

I gave the driver my address and turned to the window.

The interior reeked of roses and musk—Anna Fox's signature perfume. My half-sister. The current Mrs. Gilbert.

The passenger seat was decorated with cute cushions. A custom sign on the dashboard read: Reserved for Annie.

I watched the city lights blur into neon streaks.

"Serena Whitmore." Paul's voice dripped venom. "Seeing you live like this brings me immense joy."

I met his reflection in the rearview mirror. Six years, and his hatred hadn't dimmed.

I looked down at my hands—rough, red, swollen from detergent and cold water.

Paul wasn't finished.