I've Longed for Divorce

On her son's birthday, Isabella Tudor saw her husband James Sinclair spending the day celebrating their son's birthday with his lover while scrolling through INS.

The woman had long, soft waves and the kind of gentle beauty people instantly trusted. Jasper stood between them, smiling so brightly he looked like he belonged right there.

The three of them looked like a perfect family.

And the comments were already exploding.

[Oh my God, this family is adorable! Happy birthday, Jasper!]

[Mr. Sinclair finally made it official! I knew Charlotte was Jasper's mom!]

[Obviously! James and Charlotte grew up together. If she's not the mom, then who is?]

Isabella kept scrolling, her fingertips turning cold.

She typed something, deleted it, typed again, deleted again.

In the end, she posted nothing.

Because no one knew that she was actually James's wife and Jasper's mother.

Six years ago, James agreed to marry her. He publicly acknowledged Jasper's identity.

But he never acknowledged hers.

He didn't let her attend company events. He didn't bring her to social gatherings. He let the world believe she didn't exist, as if she were a stain on his otherwise immaculate life.

Charlotte was different, of course.

Charlotte Johnson and the Sinclair Family went back generations. She and James grew up together and had once shared the kind of love people liked to romanticize. The media photographed them more times than Isabella could count, and James never bothered to correct a single rumor.

Isabella threw her phone on the sofa, got up and walked to the kitchen, then reheated the dinner she had prepared long before.

By eight o'clock, James came home with Jasper.

Isabella wiped her hands and hurried to the entryway.

"Jasper," she said, kneeling and opening her arms. "Come here, sweetheart. Let me hug you."

Jasper, backpack still on, glanced at her with a cool, distant expression. He didn't move toward her. He simply walked past her and started unpacking his things on his own.

"I made your favorite beef stew…" Isabella stepped forward, reaching out to help with his bag.

Jasper shifted just out of her reach. "I already ate at Ms. Johnson's."

Her hand froze in midair.

She stood slowly, her throat tightening as she watched him walk away.

"Did you have fun today?" She asked, keeping her voice soft as she followed him toward the living room.

Jasper tossed his backpack onto the couch, curled up in his usual corner, and pulled out his phone. "Yeah. Ms. Johnson went on the carousel with me and bought me strawberry ice cream. Way more fun than being with Mom."

He said it with a bright, carefree grin she had never seen directed at her.

"Hey, Dad," Jasper added, turning excitedly toward James. "Next time, can we ask Ms. Johnson to go to the water park with us? She said she's really good at swimming!"

James grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge. "We'll see if she has time."

"Yes!" Jasper bounced twice on the couch, thrilled. "I'll call her tomorrow!"

Isabella stood beside him for a moment, watching his joy, feeling her chest cave in around itself. She couldn't find any words.

In the kitchen, she dumped the stew—hours of work—into the trash.

While washing the pot, she heard Jasper's voice drifting from the living room. "Dad, why did Mom come home so early?"

A pause. Then James's low voice. "What, you didn't want her to?"

Jasper sighed. "No. When Mom's here, Ms. Johnson won't come over. Ms. Johnson is so pretty and knows so much stuff. Mom just cooks and cleans and… that's it."

The ache in Isabella's chest grew so sharp she had to brace herself against the counter. She turned the faucet on full blast, drowning out their voices.

Her hands—once steady and confident—looked rougher than she remembered. Her eyes stung.

Six years ago, people in her field called her a prodigy. She had won international awards. Her graduation project was displayed in a museum. Top design firms courted her nonstop.

Then she met James. The man who changed everything.

They'd met at a charity gala. Among all the tailored tuxedos and polished socialites, James stood in the corner wearing a crisp white shirt, no tie, no jacket. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, shadowing the depth in his eyes. He looked like a lonely prince who didn't quite belong anywhere.

She fell for him instantly.

Later, at a Sinclair family event, she accompanied her mentor. James was different then—confident, magnetic, every bit the heir to The Sinclair Group.

They both drank too much that night. She didn't remember how she ended up in his room.

Two months later, she realized she was pregnant.

James's mother had been furious. She forced James to marry her. The Sinclairs, one of the most prominent families in the country, could not afford that kind of scandal.

James eventually agreed, but right before signing, he told her, "I'll never see you as my wife."

She believed naively that having the baby would change things.

She'd been wrong.

After Jasper was born, James took the infant away from her and hired a full team of professionals to care for him. He refused to let her handle anything. Even the nursery she designed—an entire labor of love—was torn down and rebuilt from scratch.

Eventually, she gave in.

She thought, at least she was still in the house. At least she could still see her son every day.

So she quit her job. She walked away from the brilliance she once had. She learned to cook, to clean, to be quiet. She tried to be the gentle wife and mother she thought he wanted.

But Jasper only drifted further away.

After finishing the dishes, Isabella climbed the stairs and hesitated outside the study door before knocking.

James sat at his desk, looking up only briefly when she entered.

"You took Jasper to the amusement park today," she said softly.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He said nothing, flipping another page.

Isabella's hands curled into fists. "He's my son. Today is his birthday. You didn't even ask if I wanted to come—"

"Your son?" James cut in, his voice cool and superior. "Isabella, from the moment you crawled into my bed, you lost the right to call yourself his mother."

"I didn't crawl into your bed!" She clenched her jaw, heat rising in her face.

For six years, she'd tried to explain the truth, he refused to believe her.

"You know exactly what you did," James said coldly. "I'm not interested in hearing your lies."

Isabella opened her mouth, suddenly feeling that all explanations were feeble and meaningless.