Billionaire’s Virgin Ex-Wife

Morning light poured through the sheer curtains, painting delicate shadows across the elegant hotel suite. A faint trace of last night’s champagne clung to the air, mingling with the expensive cologne lingering on silk sheets.

Alexander Vanderbilt stood rigidly by the window, the skyline reflecting in his cold, unreadable gaze. His broad shoulders cut a stark silhouette against the pale dawn.

On the edge of the bed sat Serena, her beauty impossible to ignore despite the stiffness in her posture. Her hair fell in soft, disheveled waves over her bare shoulders as she fastened the final buttons of her blouse with trembling fingers.

Alexander’s voice broke the silence, cool and biting.

Serena’s hands froze mid-motion. His words were like a blade slicing through the fragile illusion of calm she’d tried to maintain.

He had always been in control — never careless, never reckless. Even when drinking, he held himself apart from others, refusing to yield to temptation. But last night had been different.

Serena, drawing a shaky breath, struggled to hold herself together.

She had known, since the moment their engagement had been arranged, that Alexander resented her. That he’d never asked for a wife, much less one chosen by the family.

After what happened last night, how could she convince him she hadn’t orchestrated it? That she hadn’t schemed to steal even a piece of his heart?

Guilt and frustration tangled in her chest.

She parted her lips to speak — “Actually, I—” — but before the words could form, a sudden vibration shattered the stillness.

Alexander’s phone buzzed against the nightstand. He turned to glance at it, his jaw tightening as he answered, switching to speakerphone with an air of bored disdain.

A breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony doors, carrying the faint perfume of rain-soaked city streets. Beyond the glass, the skyline shimmered in quiet shades of blue and gray, the river slicing a pale ribbon through the morning haze.

A crisp, clinical voice came through the speaker.

Alexander’s fingertips tapped rhythmically against the window frame, perfectly steady.

Grandfather had insisted: She’s smart, polite, educated. She saved my life once.

But what did that matter? The Morales family had been saved, and the debt was paid.

His tone was devoid of any warmth as he answered,

Serena flinched. Her hands clenched around her phone, her throat tightening. Divorce papers?

A chime of messages interrupted her thoughts.

Alfonso: Serena, did you leave early last night? Araminta asked if Alexander drank the wine.

Serena: Dad, didn’t you prepare it?

Alfonso: No, Araminta did. If you have time, visit Valentina at the hospital. She misses you.

Araminta.

A surge of anger lit up Serena’s eyes. So it was her.

She clenched her jaw, steadying her voice before replying.

Her gaze drifted back to Alexander. He stood by the window in a loosely tied white robe, towering and unapproachable, every inch the Vanderbilt heir — powerful, cold, unyielding.

It was as if last night had never happened, as if her presence meant nothing.

Serena took a slow, steadying breath. It’s over, she thought. They would divorce soon. No reason to stay and suffer further humiliation.

Quietly, she gathered her things. There was no point in prolonging this moment, no point in trying to talk to a man who’d already sealed his heart away.

By the time Alexander ended the call, the suite had fallen eerily silent.

He turned, expecting to see her. Instead, there were only rumpled sheets, the lingering scent of champagne, and the faint imprint of a woman who had already vanished.

His expression darkened, frustration simmering beneath the stoic surface.

He ran a hand across his face, recalling last night through a haze of disbelief. If not for the stain on the sheets, I’d think it was a bad dream.

A sharp knock on the door broke his thoughts.

Jonathan Potter, his trusted assistant, stepped inside, crisp and composed. He carried a freshly pressed suit draped over one arm, his eyes briefly scanning the disordered room before saying nothing.

Alexander wordlessly entered the bathroom, letting the cold water of the shower wash away the night, but something continued to gnaw at him.

Serena — the way she had left without so much as a glance backward — unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

He emerged dressed and sharp once more, every inch the formidable Vanderbilt. As he reached the door, a thought struck him, freezing him mid-step.

His voice was clipped and dangerous.

Jonathan stiffened, quickly understanding. “I’ll investigate immediately.”

Alexander’s lips curved in a humorless smirk. She thinks I’ll chase after her? That I’ll fall into her games?

He dismissed Jonathan with a wave of his hand.

And in that moment, standing alone in the hushed, immaculate suite, Alexander made a silent vow:

If she thought she could slip away without consequences, she was gravely mistaken.

Across the city, Serena stepped out of a steaming shower, water still clinging to her skin in delicate rivulets. Wrapping herself in a towel, she felt a faint sting across her shoulders, as if her skin itself was trying to scrub away the ghosts of last night. But no amount of heat or soap could cleanse what had been burned into her memory.

Exhaustion pressed against her bones as she collapsed onto the bed, her damp hair leaving dark stains on the crisp white sheets. She closed her eyes, desperate for rest, but the night refused to release its grip.

It came back to her in relentless flashes.

The feel of Alexander’s hands on her body, rough yet achingly familiar.

Serena’s hand curled around a fistful of bedsheets, a bitterness rising hot in her throat. It wasn’t simply the loss of her virginity that made her ache.

It was his voice, low and ragged, carried on shallow breaths.

"Victoria."

Victoria Laurent.

The woman who owned Alexander’s heart.

Serena turned onto her side, her chest tightening as if a heavy stone had been laid on it. She had been his wife for three long years, yet in all that time, she had been nothing more than a polite, beautiful placeholder.

Sleep was a cruel stranger. After minutes of futile tossing, she gave up, reaching over to the nightstand. Pulling open the drawer, she took out two pristine marriage certificates. Their crisp edges caught the lamplight, the embossed seals still proud and official, like a mocking reminder.

She traced a trembling finger over the bold print: Alexander Vanderbilt.

For three years, she thought, I have been Mrs. Vanderbilt in name alone.

But last night had changed everything.

She let out a sharp breath, slammed the drawer shut, and stared at the ceiling.

Everything had changed — and there was no going back.