Dear Ex, I'm Your Godmother Now

Freya

Luke's voice echoed at the other end of the line, the sound crackling through my earpods as I shuffled the last of my files into my briefcase.

"—I mean it, Freya. Milan wants you in that room. You're the only one they trust. Half the reason Calloway Textiles has a European pipeline at all is because of the deal you stitched together last quarter."

I checked my watch. Two forty. My flight left at six.

"Tell Simon to save me a seat by the window," I said, smiling despite myself. "I'll stop by the house first—grab a few things—then I'll meet you at the airport. We still have two hours before boarding, and traffic's light today."

"You're a machine, Calloway."

I chuckled. "Just efficient."

Hanging up, I slid the phone into my pocket, already running through my checklist. Passport in the side compartment. Charger. The Milan folder with the revised terms I'd stayed up till two a.m. rewriting. Adrian would be at the office—he'd left before I woke, as usual—so the house would be empty, quiet, mine for twenty unhurried minutes.

I turned onto our street and felt my shoulders drop for the first time in days.

Then I stepped through the front door and froze.

Giggling.

Coming from upstairs. From our room.

Standing in the entryway, keys still in hand, I told myself I was hearing things. Adrian mentioned the housekeeper, had taken the week off.

Stepping closer cautiously, my hands reached for the knob, turning it slowly.

Then, another sound came. This time, familiar. Low, warm and unguarded in a way that made my stomach turn.

I had been married to Adrian Kingsley for three years, and I had never heard him laugh like that.

Not at our wedding. Not when his godfather toasted us. Not once in three years of me trying, quietly, desperately, to be enough of something to earn a sound like that.

Then, a soft breathless voice echoed after his, saying his name in a way I didn't even dare to.

"Adrian…"

Everything in me stilled, the voice ringing in my head.

No.

It couldn't be.

Not against please.

My feet flew up the stairs in seconds, my heart slamming against my chest. I didn't even register dropping my briefcase, only that my hands were empty when I reached the bedroom door.

My blood ran cold..

The door was ajar. Two inches. Enough for me to witness the horror that broke whatever hope still thrummed in my chest.

Selene.

My sister.

On my husband's lap. Her back against his chest, his arms around her waist, her legs tangled in the sheets of my bed. Adrian—cold, distant, never-lay-a-hand-on-me Adrian—burying kisses along her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear, while she laughed and tipped her head back into him like she belonged there.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Cutting through the deafening silence in my head.

Adrian's head snapped up immediately. His eyes met mine, the realisation dawning on him instantly.

He shoved Selene away the same moment I pushed the door open, taking in the littered clothes and lipstick stains all over his lips and face.

The same man who for three years, flinched when I reached for his hand, answered my good mornings with a nod, and went absolutely still if I so much as even try to start anything intimate.

Selene sat up slowly from where she'd landed on the mattress beside him, her eyes twinkling with absolute delight and satisfaction.

"F–Freya," Adrian stammered, face pale. anking the sheet around his waist with a clumsiness I'd never seen in him. "Freya, wait—it's not—this isn't what—"

"Not what it looks like?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Then tell me, Adrian. Because it looks exactly like what it is."

"Okay. Okay, yes, I know how this looks." He held up both hands, palms out, like I was a wild animal he was calming. "But listen to me. Listen. We can talk about this. We should talk about this—but calmly. Like adults. Like partners."

Partners.

The word sinked down between my ribs.

Tears burned my eyes. Swallowing, my eyes turned slowly towards Selene, still watching us with amusement, not even reaching for a robe to cover herself.

"Selene." My voice cracked. "Get out."

She tilted her head. "This isn't really your call to make, is it, sister?"

"Get. Out."

"Freya—" Adrian stepped toward me, and something in my face must have warned him off, because he stopped a foot away and lowered his voice. "Freya, please. Think. Think about what you're about to do right now. Not for me—for everything. The merger. Your father's company. My father—God, if my godfather hears about this—" He ran a hand through his hair, and for one sick second I thought he might laugh. "You know what this could cost? Both families? Everything we've built?"

I stared at him.

He was standing in our bedroom, half-naked, having just been caught with my sister in my bed, and he wasn't asking forgiveness.

He was asking for discretion.

"Freya, listen." His tone shifted, softened, found that practiced charm I always convinced myself was affection. "Nothing has to change. You and I—we're still us. This—this was a mistake. A moment. It means nothing, I swear it. You're my wife. You'll always be my wife. And everything we have, everything we're building, with the company—it all stays exactly the same. I'll be better. I'll—whatever you want. Just—" his hand closed around my wrist, gentle, urgent, "—just keep this between us. Please. No one needs to know."

No one needs to know.

Three years of me. Three years of dinners I cooked that he didn't eat, of conversations he ended with one-word answers, of waiting all night, hoping he came back earlier—summed up in four words.

No one needs to know.

Suddenly, everything seemed so clear, calm, still like ice forming over water.

"You want to know what I want?" I pulled my wrist free. "I'm done with this."

"Freya—"

"Don't." I stepped back, my voice breaking. "Don't use that voice on me. I'm done playing this stupid game with you. I never should have trusted you. Why did I think you would be different? That. . ." My voice cracked, the tears threatening to spill.

I shook my head. “Let's just end this."

His face changed.

"You're being irrational," he reached for my hand again. "You're tired. You've been working too much—that's half the problem, honestly—and you're making this bigger than it is. We have a life. A good life. Don't throw it away over—"

"Over what?" I laughed, flinching away from his touch. "Finish the sentence, Adrian. Over what?"

A hand ran through his hair in frustration.

Selene beside him leaned closer, voice slow and sugar-sweet. "Oh, Freya. Don't make a scene. You were never going to keep him, you know. A man like Adrian?" She laughed softly. "You should be grateful it lasted this long. You're smart. Even you must have done the math at some point."

The math.

The math that said a girl built like me doesn't get to be loved, only used, and should be grateful for the using.

I turned to her, and for the first time in my life, I saw her clearly—not through the fog of a little sister I'd defended, covered for, apologized for. Just her. A girl who had been handed everything I was told I didn't deserve, standing in my bedroom, in my life, telling me to be grateful for the scraps.

"You could have had my parents," I said quietly. "You could have the spotlight, the pictures, the name. The place at the table they never once offered me. All of it—I let you have all of it, Selene. Every single piece, because I thought—" My eyes burned. I didn't blink. "I thought at least one thing in this world would be mine. Just one."

I looked at Adrian. Then back at her.

"You don't get this one too."

"Freya—" Adrian started again, and this time there was an edge of panic under it, a crack in his composure. "Think about the merger. The Milan deal. Your flight—my god, your flight, you're supposed to leave for—"

"Cancel it."

"What?"

"I said cancel it." I snapped, storming out of the bedroom. My hands dug into my pocket, dialing the first number that had just called in.

He picked on the first ring, his voice hurried. “Where are you? The flight is in. . ."

“Cancel it" I cut in, pushing back against Adrian's hold as he chased after me. “Also cut Kingsley Distribution out of every Calloway deal and put an hold on the Calbridge partnership."

“Not the Calbridge partnership!" Adrian snapped, slapping the phone away.

It crashed down on the floor, scattering across the shiny surface.

My hand flew back instantly, meeting his face with the same force. “You have no right to stop me. I made you into who you are. I can very well take everything back."

"Consider this your notice, Adrian. We're getting a divorce."