Too Late, Ex - I'm the Billionaire's Wife Now

Jane: POV

I balanced the stack of design books in one arm as I fished for my car keys in the chaos of my purse.

Two volumes on contemporary textile innovation, one on sustainable fashion, and a biography of Coco Chanel—research for when I'd eventually return to the design world.

'If I ever returned.' The thought made my stomach clench with a familiar bitterness I'd been swallowing for months.

"Found everything you needed, Mrs. Shaw?" The bookstore clerk's polite smile felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves.

"Yes, thank you," I replied with the practiced smile I'd perfected at Shaw family functions.

My phone buzzed. Probably Michael checking if I'd pick up his prescription.

But it wasn't Michael.

The text was from Serena, with an image attached.

My thumb hovered over it for a second before opening.

Immediately, I wished I hadn't.

Lucas, my husband of one year, was asleep with his head resting on Serena's bare shoulder.

Serana: [If you dare, come to the Celestial Hotel, room 1508. Unless you're too scared, Jane-y.]

My hands trembled as I shoved the phone into my purse, nearly dropping my books.

I'd always dismissed the rumors about Lucas as business necessities—networking dinners, industry events, strategic relationships.

"It's how business works in New York," he'd explained with that condescending tone he reserved just for me.

Now the evidence was staring me in the face.

I slid into my car, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

'Just go home,' the rational part of my brain pleaded.

But something else—pride, rage, or perhaps just the need for confirmation—had me pulling out of the parking lot toward downtown.

Twenty minutes later, I stood outside room 1508 at the Celestial, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The door was slightly ajar.

Through the crack, I heard rhythmic movements and Serena's exaggerated moans that sounded more like a bad porn film than genuine pleasure.

"You're so much better than her," she purred. "She doesn't deserve you. She never did. Not like I do."

"She never did," Lucas grunted back. "God, I wish I'd never married her. Such a waste of talent in that boring little design studio of hers."

I felt sick, bile rising in my throat. I should have walked away. Any self-respecting woman would have.

Instead, I pushed the door open with a trembling hand.

The scene was exactly what I'd feared.

Lucas, completely naked, was on top of Serena, his body moving rhythmically against hers.

When she saw me, she didn't even try to cover herself.

Instead, she threw me a victorious smile and moaned louder, her eyes locked on mine.

"Oh God, Lucas, don't stop," she practically shouted, making sure I heard every word.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand why he'd done this to me, why he'd thrown away our marriage, my dignity, everything I'd sacrificed.

I wanted to grab the lamp from the bedside table and throw it at his head.

Instead, I found myself strangely calm, my mind drifting to how we'd gotten here, as if watching a movie of someone else's life.

We'd married just a year after graduation.

Lucas had insisted I quit my budding career at my design studio, saying Shaw wives didn't need to work.

"You'll have everything you could want," he'd promised, sliding that obscenely large diamond onto my finger. "The Shaw name opens doors that talent alone never could."

Like an idiot, I believed him.

But the intimacy I'd expected never materialized.

We'd kissed and embraced in college—never going all the way, but close enough that I expected passion in our marriage.

Instead, he barely touched me.

When I'd shyly tried to initiate, wrapping my arms around him one night in lingerie, he'd claimed fatigue or illness. "My body isn't feeling great right now," was his constant excuse.

It all changed after my 22nd birthday. Before that, he'd been attentive, almost loving. After, nothing but cold shoulders and business trips.

Now I knew where—or rather with whom—those "business trips" had been spent.

"Lucas!" I said, my voice icier than I expected.

He froze, then whipped his head around. The color drained from his face when he saw me.

"Jane, you... Jesus Christ... this isn't what you think!" He scrambled off Serena, grabbing a sheet to cover himself. "I can explain everything."

"Really? Because it looks exactly like what I think." I shoved his chest, surprisingly steady. "You're fucking your foster sister in a hotel room while telling me you're at business meetings. You disgust me. I want a divorce."

His shock morphed into a calculating smile that sent chills down my spine. It was the same smile I'd seen him use when crushing competitors.

"A divorce? That's the funniest thing I've heard all day." He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "You think you can divorce me? You can't afford the cost, Jane. Not financially, not socially, and certainly not for your family."

Before I could respond, the door burst open behind me. A group of photographers rushed in, cameras flashing like strobe lights.

"Mr. and Mrs. Shaw! Can you comment on the rumors about your marriage?"

"Is this a reconciliation after the reported separation?"

"Lucas, what about your relationship with Serena Foster?"

"Can't you see my wife and I are busy?" Lucas roared, his business persona instantly replacing the caught cheater. "Get the fuck out unless you want your publications sued into oblivion! I'll own your miserable tabloids by morning!"

One brave reporter, noticing my distress, hesitated. "Mrs. Shaw, are you okay? You seem uncomfortable."

I tried to move away from Lucas, but his arm snaked around my waist, yanking me onto his lap with surprising strength.

Under the sheets, Serena was still there. The thought of this twisted threesome made me want to vomit.

"Don't forget who pays for Michael's physical therapy," Lucas whispered venomously in my ear. "One wrong word, and your father's medical expenses get cut off too."

'Shit.'

I forced a smile that felt like it might crack my face. "We're fine. This is just... private time between my husband and me. Please leave."

As the reporters filed out, I heard their murmurs: "Weren't we tipped that Shaw was here with that D-list actress?"

"Didn't we see them check in together?"

"Something's off about this whole setup."

The door closed, and I immediately pulled away from Lucas's grip, wiping my skin where he'd touched me.

"Handle your mess," I said, straightening my clothes. "We'll discuss divorce later. This marriage is over."

Lucas lunged toward me, his face contorted with rage. "You little—"

"Lucas, baby, are they gone?" Serena whined from under the sheets, her head emerging with perfectly tousled hair. "I was so scared! You were so brave facing them down!"

I walked out, unable to stomach another second of her fake vulnerability.

Those reporters had clearly been her doing—a failed attempt to create a scandal that would force Lucas to choose her.

She'd always been too stupid to plan properly. The chess pieces were moving, but she was playing checkers.

In the hotel lobby, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd memorized but never used.

My heart pounded as I waited.

"Mr. Quinn," I said when he answered, my voice steadier than I felt.

"That proposal you made last month at the charity gala? I accept. I'll marry you, but I have conditions—you'll need to cover my father's hospitalization expenses and help me recover the West Side property that rightfully belongs to my family."