After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets

After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets

Bing Daner

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I sat alone at my long marble dining table, staring at a plate of cold truffle risotto. My husband, Jere, was late again, claiming he was stuck in a "war zone" of a board meeting for a multi-billion dollar merger. A single Instagram notification shattered the silence. It was a photo of a candlelit birthday dinner, featuring a man's hand resting on a white tablecloth. I recognized the slight veins, the jagged scar on the thumb, and the navy-faced Patek Philippe watch I had spent six months tracking down as a wedding gift. Jere wasn't in a boardroom; he was celebrating his ex-girlfriend Irina's birthday while texting me to "don't wait up." The next morning, I followed him to a VIP hospital wing. I watched through a cracked door as my husband cuddled a five-year-old boy and whispered tender promises to Irina. When he came home, he tried to buy my silence with a rare pink diamond bracelet, but I found the receipt: he had bought two identical ones. He had branded his wife and his mistress with matching jewelry, using hidden trackers to keep us both on a leash. When I confronted him, he didn't flinch. He coldly reminded me that he owned my father's massive debts and could send him to prison for insolvency fraud with one phone call. "Stop with the attitude, Deliah," he said. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life, trapped in a gilded cage by the man who paid for my mother's heart surgery while keeping a secret family across town. The humiliation peaked at our rescheduled anniversary dinner when Jere received a text, threw a stack of hundreds at me like I was a stranger, and abandoned me in a crowded restaurant to rush back to her. "Pay the bill," he commanded before walking out. Standing in the wreckage of a shattered crystal vase back at the penthouse, I realized my silence was the only thing keeping his empire standing. I pulled the crumpled divorce papers from my purse and signed my name with a steady hand. I wasn't just walking away; I was calling his sister to help me burn his perfect world to the ground.

After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets Chapter 1 1

Deliah Hines sat alone at the long marble dining table in their Manhattan penthouse. The silence in the room was heavy, pressing against her eardrums like deep water. She stared at the plate in front of her. The truffle risotto, Jere's absolute favorite, had gone cold hours ago. The creamy texture had congealed into a stiff, unappetizing lump, much like the feeling currently settling in the pit of her stomach.

She checked the time on her phone for the fiftieth time. 11:45 PM.

The candles she had lit three hours ago were now just pools of wax, the wicks drowning in their own melt. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that usually preceded a storm, or a funeral.

Deliah unlocked her phone again, the blue light harsh against her tired eyes. She opened Instagram, her thumb moving automatically, scrolling mindlessly to distract herself from the emptiness of the apartment. She didn't even know what she was looking for until she found it.

An anonymous account she had suspected before-one with no profile picture and a generic handle-had posted a new Story just four minutes ago.

Deliah's breath hitched. She tapped the circle.

The image filled her screen. It was low-light, intimate, taken at a table in a high-end restaurant. There was a single slice of cake with a candle, the flame blurring slightly in the capture. But it wasn't the cake that made Deliah's heart stop. It was the hand resting on the white tablecloth in the corner of the frame.

The caption was simple text overlaid in white: Finally back where we belong. Happy Birthday to me.

Deliah zoomed in on the hand. The skin was tanned, the fingers long and strong. On the wrist sat a Patek Philippe watch with a distinctive navy dial. She knew that watch. She had spent six months tracking it down for Jere as a wedding gift. And just below the thumb, there was a faint, jagged white scar-the result of a sailing accident when he was twenty.

It was undeniably Jere Bolton.

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. Today wasn't just a late night at the office. Today wasn't a board meeting that ran over. Today was Irina Collins' birthday.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. A text message from Jere appeared at the top of the screen.

Still wrapped up in negotiations. Don't wait up.

Deliah stared at the lie. It was so casual, so easy for him. She felt a cold numbness spread from her chest outward, freezing her limbs. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just felt... hollowed out.

She stood up abruptly. The legs of her chair scraped loudly against the expensive hardwood floor, a harsh, ugly sound that echoed in the vast room. She grabbed the plates to clear the table, her movements jerky and agitated. She needed to do something with her hands. She needed to clean the mess, hide the evidence of her pathetic waiting.

She stacked the plates too quickly. A crystal wine glass tipped over, rolling off the edge of the granite countertop and shattering on the floor.

Deliah instinctively reached down to pick up the shards. She wasn't thinking. She just wanted the mess gone.

A sharp, triangular piece of crystal sliced deep into her palm.

Blood welled up immediately, dark and thick, dripping onto the pristine white counter and the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip.

She stared at the red drops, mesmerizing in their brightness. She waited for the sting, the throb, the burn. But there was nothing. She realized with a detached horror that she felt absolutely no physical pain. The emotional agony of the betrayal had completely overridden her sensory nerves. Her body was in shock.

She walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. She ran cold water over the wound, watching the blood swirl into pink ribbons and disappear down the drain. It was fascinating, in a morbid way, how easily things could be washed away.

She opened the first aid kit with trembling hands. She wrapped the gauze tightly around her palm, pulling it until the pressure was uncomfortable, perhaps too tight, just trying to feel something.

She caught her reflection in the dark kitchen window. A pale woman with hollow eyes, standing in a kitchen that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, waiting for a man who wasn't coming home because he was celebrating the birthday of the woman he actually loved.

She turned back to the sink and shoved the cold risotto into the trash disposal. She flipped the switch. The disposal ground loudly, a mechanical roar that drowned out the sound of her own shallow, ragged breathing.

She turned off the dining room lights, plunging the penthouse into darkness. She walked to the master bedroom, the space feeling vast and cavernous. She didn't change into pajamas. She just curled up on her side of the massive king-sized bed, clutching her bandaged hand to her chest, her eyes wide open in the dark, waiting for the elevator to chime.

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Today is October 14th, my birthday. I returned to New York after months away, dragging my suitcase through the biting wind, but the VIP pickup zone where my husband’s Maybach usually idled was empty. When I finally let myself into our Upper East Side penthouse, I didn’t find a cake or a "welcome home" banner. Instead, I found my husband, Caden, kneeling on the floor, helping our five-year-old daughter wrap a massive gift for my half-sister, Adalynn. Caden didn’t even look up when I walked in; he was too busy laughing with the girl who had already stolen my father’s legacy and was now moving in on my family. "Auntie Addie is a million times better than Mommy," my daughter Elara chirped, clutching a plush toy Caden had once forbidden me from buying for her. "Mommy is mean," she whispered loudly, while Caden just smirked, calling me a "drill sergeant" before whisking her off to Adalynn’s party without a second glance. Later that night, I saw a video Adalynn posted online where my husband and child laughed while mocking my "sensitive" nature, treating me like an inconvenient ghost in my own home. I had spent five years researching nutrition for Elara’s health and managing every detail of Caden’s empire, only to be discarded the moment I wasn't in the room. How could the man who set his safe combination to my birthday completely forget I even existed? The realization didn't break me; it turned me into ice. I didn't scream or beg for an explanation. I simply walked into the study, pulled out the divorce papers I’d drafted months ago, and took a black marker to the terms. I crossed out the alimony, the mansion, and even the custody clause—if they wanted a life without me, I would give them exactly what they asked for. I left my four-carat diamond ring on the console table and walked out into the rain with nothing but a heavily encrypted hard drive. The submissive Mrs. Holloway was gone, and "Ghost," the most lethal architect in the tech world, was finally back online to take back everything they thought I’d forgotten.

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After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets After Divorce:My arrogant ex-husband regrets Bing Daner Modern
“I sat alone at my long marble dining table, staring at a plate of cold truffle risotto. My husband, Jere, was late again, claiming he was stuck in a "war zone" of a board meeting for a multi-billion dollar merger. A single Instagram notification shattered the silence. It was a photo of a candlelit birthday dinner, featuring a man's hand resting on a white tablecloth. I recognized the slight veins, the jagged scar on the thumb, and the navy-faced Patek Philippe watch I had spent six months tracking down as a wedding gift. Jere wasn't in a boardroom; he was celebrating his ex-girlfriend Irina's birthday while texting me to "don't wait up." The next morning, I followed him to a VIP hospital wing. I watched through a cracked door as my husband cuddled a five-year-old boy and whispered tender promises to Irina. When he came home, he tried to buy my silence with a rare pink diamond bracelet, but I found the receipt: he had bought two identical ones. He had branded his wife and his mistress with matching jewelry, using hidden trackers to keep us both on a leash. When I confronted him, he didn't flinch. He coldly reminded me that he owned my father's massive debts and could send him to prison for insolvency fraud with one phone call. "Stop with the attitude, Deliah," he said. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life, trapped in a gilded cage by the man who paid for my mother's heart surgery while keeping a secret family across town. The humiliation peaked at our rescheduled anniversary dinner when Jere received a text, threw a stack of hundreds at me like I was a stranger, and abandoned me in a crowded restaurant to rush back to her. "Pay the bill," he commanded before walking out. Standing in the wreckage of a shattered crystal vase back at the penthouse, I realized my silence was the only thing keeping his empire standing. I pulled the crumpled divorce papers from my purse and signed my name with a steady hand. I wasn't just walking away; I was calling his sister to help me burn his perfect world to the ground.”
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Chapter 1 1

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Chapter 2 2

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Chapter 3 3

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Chapter 4 4

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Chapter 5 5

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Chapter 6 6

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Chapter 7 7

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Chapter 8 8

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Chapter 9 9

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Chapter 10 10

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Chapter 11 11

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Chapter 12 12

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Chapter 13 13

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Chapter 14 14

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Chapter 15 15

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Chapter 16 16

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Chapter 17 17

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Chapter 18 18

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Chapter 19 19

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Chapter 20 20

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Chapter 21 21

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Chapter 22 22

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Chapter 23 23

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Chapter 24 24

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Chapter 25 25

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Chapter 26 26

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Chapter 27 27

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Chapter 28 28

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Chapter 29 29

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Chapter 30 30

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Chapter 31 31

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Chapter 32 32

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Chapter 33 33

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Chapter 34 34

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Chapter 35 35

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Chapter 36 36

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Chapter 37 37

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Chapter 38 38

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Chapter 39 39

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Chapter 40 40

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