No Forgiveness For Mr. CEO

"You'll regret this," he said, certain I was only bluffing.

I still signed the divorce papers—without asking for a single extra dollar.

For three years, I was the wife who left a light on for him, who knew exactly how warm he liked his water, how strong his coffee should be, even what his silence meant. He never once asked what I wanted.

"I can't live without you," he now begs, kneeling in the rain outside my building.

Some men only learn to bow their heads after they've already lost everything worth keeping.

——

I held the divorce agreement in my hands—thirty pages thick.

I sat in the study and flipped through it from beginning to end, perfectly calm.

The section on asset division was blank.

This pre-marital property worth twenty million dollars went to him. The Long Island estate went to him. Any options or equity in his venture capital firm, even those limited-edition sports cars sitting in the garage—none of it had anything to do with me.

"Are you done yet?"

Julian, sitting across the desk from me, finally lost his patience.

He lifted his wrist and glanced at his custom Patek Philippe watch.

"I have an important M&A meeting this afternoon. Serena, if you have any issue with the agreement, just say so. There's no need to waste my time with this silent treatment."

I looked up at the face I'd been infatuated with for three years.

Deep-set eyes, a sharp nose, hair always combed to perfection.

He was the perfect capitalist. He was also a terrible husband.

"I have no issues." I picked up the pen from the desk and pulled off the cap. "I don't want anything."

I signed quickly, my handwriting steady as a rock.

Three copies. When I finished, I pushed them back across the desk.

Julian looked at the signatures, surprise flickering in his eyes.

"Walking away with nothing?" He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Serena, what game are you playing now?"

I didn't answer. I just looked at him calmly.

"If you think this self-sacrificing act will make me feel guilty enough to change my mind about the divorce, then I'm afraid you're being naive."

Julian let out a cold laugh.

"We agreed three years ago that this marriage was simply to help your family's architecture firm through its cash flow crisis. The crisis is over now. We both got what we needed. Let's part on good terms."

"You're right," I stood up. "Let's part on good terms."

He seemed caught off guard by how readily I agreed. His frown deepened.

"You're serious?"

"What else? Stay here and keep watching you lose sleep over someone else?"

Three years of marriage. Three years of separate bedrooms.

On our wedding night, he had someone move my luggage to the guest room.

"I'm a light sleeper. Work stress. I need absolute quiet and personal space."

I believed him.

Until I discovered what was in that password-locked drawer of his—a stack of plane ticket stubs to Paris, and countless photos of Valerie.

He wasn't a light sleeper. He was just afraid he'd call out someone else's name in his dreams and embarrass me.

"Leave Valerie out of this."

"This has nothing to do with her. She just returned to the States and she's emotionally unstable. As a friend, it's only natural I look out for her. You're the one being petty, insisting on pushing this to divorce."

I almost laughed.

Abandoning his feverish wife at midnight to drive to JFK and pick up a "friend."

Canceling our anniversary dinner just to cut the ribbon at that "friend's" gallery opening.

Even changing the security code to this apartment to that "friend's" birthday.

"Whatever you say." I didn't bother arguing.

"I've signed the agreement. Have the lawyers finalize everything and send me the divorce decree." I turned toward the door.

"Serena." He called after me, his voice carrying a note of certainty. "You walk out that door, you leave with nothing. I won't give you a second chance."

I stopped and looked back at him.

"Julian, I think you've got something confused." I smiled faintly. "I'm the one who doesn't want you anymore."

With that, I pulled open the study door and walked out.

Behind me, I heard the sound of papers being slammed onto the desk.

I ignored it and headed straight to my bedroom to pack.