My Billionaire Ex Begs: Return with Our Triplets

Christine's P.O.V.

Seated before the crackling fire, I lifted my half-filled glass. I had lost count of how many I'd had while the grand feast I had prepared sat untouched, growing cold on the dining table. I tried to smile, but my eyes brimmed with tears, and a wretched lump in my throat made breathing difficult. Only the alcohol dulled the bitterness of this anniversary night.

I wasn't even sure why I had bothered making dinner. Just like last year, I would eat alone. I had married young, full of dreams, to a man who was older, attractive, and—so I had believed—would learn to love me in time.

I had been a good wife. Thoughtful, sweet… I put in effort, no matter how small, just to win his heart. God knows how hard I tried—for just one smile. But nothing I did was ever enough.

On this day every year, I remembered the first thing I had told my husband when we entered this house which was supposed to be our home. I had still been in my wedding dress when he retreated to his study without hesitation, ignoring me completely.

I had told him then with the innocent hope of a young woman who had married the wrong man. "In time, you'll see that you can love me."

I let out a bitter chuckle at the foolish girl I had once been—wasting my time, love, and effort. Elliot was the kind of man whose mere presence could chill a room, whose indifference could cut deep enough to shatter a heart in two.

I picked up my phone, my gaze still fixed on the fireplace. His number was already memorized. As I listened to the dial tone, I downed the rest of my wine. No one answered. I wasn't surprised. Elliot never bothered, especially not on our anniversary. Still, I called again. And again. Giving him the chance, one last time, to act like a husband before the last of my patience ran out.

"Damn it!" I cursed, my voice trembling with frustration. "Your wife is calling you—pick up!"

I yelled at the phone as if it could convey my anger for me. Then, in a surge of fury, I hurled my wine glass into the fire, watching it shatter into tiny shards. Gritting my teeth, I redialed—this time calling the one person who tolerated Elliot enough to answer.

"Mrs. Manning?" His assistant picked up immediately, feigning surprise.

"I want to speak to my husband," I snapped.

"Your husband? He… isn't available. He… left. He's not here."

"He's never here," I whispered, wounded. Then, with renewed anger, I hissed, "Tell him I won't take up much of his precious time! Tell him all I need is for him to step into this damn house and sign the divorce papers! I know it's asking a lot—he probably doesn't even remember this place exists! I'll gladly send him the address! One night, that's all I ask, so that we can end this farce of a marriage and he can go straight to hell.

"It won't take him more than five minutes to sign, and then he'll finally be free of me—and I of him."

I clenched my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, my hand trembling with rage. I wanted to throw it against the wall, to let it burn in the fire along with the remnants of my shattered hopes.

"Tell her I'm busy and won't be coming home tonight," a cold voice echoed in the background, distant yet unmistakable. It was him. Elliot.

A ghost of a man, never truly present, yet always capable of breaking my heart.

"Liar," I spat, my voice barely above a whisper as I held back the urge to scream. "He's there. Laughing at me. Like always."

With a sharp inhale, I seethed, "Tell him to go to hell. He can come back whenever he pleases, but those divorce papers will be waiting for him no matter how long he decides to take."

I hung up, my whole body shaking with fury and frustration. How much longer could I endure his coldness? Elliot wasn't a womanizer. He wasn't unfaithful. He didn't need to be. Because he would never give up on her—his first love, the one who had claimed his heart long before me. The woman who had left yet never truly disappeared from his life.

Even though she had moved on, her shadow still loomed over him, over us. And I? I was left to suffer the consequences. Was it truly necessary for him to ruin my happiness just because he had lost his own? I only wanted freedom. If he wasn't going to love me, then at least—at the very least—he could stop destroying me with his indifference.

Overwhelmed, I grabbed the dishes from the table and flung them to the floor. The sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the empty dining room. Who was I fooling? Year after year, I wished and hoped that for just one night, Elliot would come home like a real husband. That he would walk in with a small gift, a bottle of wine, and an apology for being late. That he would kiss me, hold me, and tell me the dinner smelled delicious.

But that was a dream. A fantasy. And I was pathetic for still waiting for it to come true.

The loud crash startled my little ones, their soft cries piercing the silence. My heart clenched. I ran upstairs, rushing over to their oversized crib—one specially made for them. My three little angels. Triplets, conceived in my desperate attempt to win Elliot's love. They were the only good thing to come out of this miserable marriage.

"There, there… I'm sorry, my loves," I whispered, soothing them as best as I could. I hadn't even touched them yet—I didn't want my sadness to taint them. They didn't deserve it.

Once my heartbeat steadied and my hands stopped trembling, I gently rocked them, caressing their tiny faces as their small fingers curled around mine. They, too, suffered from their father's absence. At the same time, they were the only reason he ever set foot in this house—perhaps out of mere curiosity, to see if I was raising them well.

"It doesn't matter if Daddy isn't here," I murmured, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. "Mommy will love you twice as much, protect you twice as fiercely, and fight for your happiness every single day."

With him, without him, despite him—we would be just fine.