The Billionaire's Obsession: My Ex-Wife Became a Queen

The champagne arrives with a silver flourish. The waiter gestures toward a man at the bar who raises his glass. I do not return the smile. My eyes stay on the empty chair across the table.

Three years of marriage. Nathaniel Preston has never missed an anniversary dinner. Tonight, the chair stays empty.

I check my phone for the tenth time. No messages. No calls. Just the cold screen reflecting my own face back at me. I wore the emerald gown because he once said green made me look like a queen. That was before Celeste Winthrop slithered back into his life. Before she started appearing at every event, wearing the same dress as me, touching his arm like she still had the right.

The restaurant doors open. My heart jerks.

Celeste walks through in emerald silk cut exactly like mine. Her smile is slow, deliberate. She heads straight for my table and slides into Nathaniel's seat without waiting for an invitation. The waiter pours her a glass of the champagne meant for our anniversary.

She tells me Nathaniel is tied up. He asked her to come. His exact words were to tell me he would make it up next year.

Next year.

I stare at her dress, at her smug face. She has what I have tried to hold for three years. His attention. His time. His loyalty.

I reach for my purse. My voice comes out steady, though my hands shake beneath the tablecloth. I tell her to enjoy her evening.

She laughs and says she always does. She signals the waiter for the Dom Pérignon, adding that I never had a taste for finer things anyway.

The laughter follows me out the door.

I walk five blocks before I stop. My heels ache. My chest heaves. The city lights blur through tears I refuse to let fall. I lean against a brick wall and press my palm to my stomach.

The nausea that hit me earlier is back. I thought it was stress. Now it rolls through me again, stronger this time.

My phone buzzes. I look down.

Nathaniel's message is short. Clinical. He says something came up and not to wait up.

Something came up. That has been the story of my marriage. Celeste came up. His mother's schemes came up. His company came up. I was never the priority. I was the wife he tolerated, the woman he married because it was convenient and because Celeste rejected him first.

I scroll through our recent messages. A week of silence. Two weeks before that. His replies are one word, if I get any at all.

My thumb hovers over the call button. I almost press it. I almost beg him to explain why he sent her to our anniversary dinner, why he let her wear the same dress, why he humiliated me in front of half the city.

I do not press it.

Instead, I open my purse and pull out a business card I have kept hidden for months. Lena Chen, Esq. Divorce and Family Law. I got it six months ago, after Celeste first moved into the guest house. I told myself it was just in case. A safety net I would never use.

Tonight, it feels like a lifeline.

I dial.

Lena answers on the second ring. Her voice is warm, alert despite the late hour. I tell her I need to see her tomorrow. I do not explain. She does not ask. She has been my best friend since college. She has seen the bruises on my pride for years.

She says she will clear her schedule. Then she asks if I am okay.

I look up at the night sky. The stars are faint, washed out by city lights. I tell her I will be.

I hang up and hail a cab. The ride to the mansion takes twenty minutes. I watch the city slide past, neon signs and darkened windows, people laughing outside bars, couples holding hands. Normal lives. Lives where husbands do not send their exes to anniversary dinners.

The cab pulls up to the gates of the Preston estate. The iron bars are ornate, imposing. I type in the code. The gates swing open.

The mansion is dark except for the foyer light. Nathaniel's car is not in the garage. Of course it is not. He is still with Celeste, or at the office, or anywhere but here.

I walk through the front door and kick off my heels. The marble floor is cold beneath my feet. The house is too large, too quiet. I have always hated this silence.

I climb the stairs to the master bedroom. Our bedroom. His side of the closet is immaculate, rows of suits in shades of charcoal and navy. My side is smaller, tucked away, as if I was always meant to be an afterthought.

I unzip my dress and let it fall. I catch my reflection in the mirror. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles under my eyes. I look like a woman who has been losing for three years.

The nausea hits again. I rush to the bathroom and lean over the sink, gripping the edges until the wave passes. I splash cold water on my face and look up.

Something is wrong. Something more than stress.

I open the medicine cabinet. My eyes land on a box I bought three weeks ago, telling myself I was being paranoid. I had not used it. I was too afraid of what it might say.

I take it out now. My hands are steady as I tear the package. I follow the instructions. Then I wait.