Divorced by my Billionaire Ex, Now He Wants Me Back!

Stella.

I wasn’t expecting to start my third wedding anniversary with my little brother calling me at the crack of dawn and announcing that I’m a month pregnant. But here we are.

“Congratulations, sis! You’re pregnant for a month!” Josh blurted out like he was telling me I’d won the lottery. Which, I guess, in a way, I had.

I blinked, squinting at the sunlight filtering through the blinds. “Josh, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re pregnant. One month in. I ran the tests twice. Triple-checked your hormone levels. You’re very knocked up.”

And that was Josh for you; future doctor, current lunatic, and always ten steps ahead of the people around him. He must have done it after I asked him to check on those strange symptoms last week. I thought I was just stressed. Maybe hormonal. Maybe even mildly insane. Turns out, I was pregnant.

With Alex’s baby.

I just sat there, stunned, clutching the phone, processing that my body had been hiding something so monumental from me. I touched my stomach, like it might suddenly pop out and wave hello. It didn’t, of course. But the gesture felt sacred. I was carrying life. A heartbeat. A future. His future. Ours.

And it was today, of all days, our third anniversary. What were the odds? I had just become the glowing, glowing (well, mostly bloated and slightly nauseous) wife with good news. Finally, after all the trying and failing and quietly crying into my pillow when the tests came back negative, we were pregnant.

This was supposed to be a fresh beginning.

I knew exactly how I was going to tell Alex. I’d envisioned it all. I baked a small cake; lemon, his favorite, and burned it a little, but love is in the imperfections, right? I set up candles on the dining table, placed the sonogram Josh had printed out in an envelope, and tucked it under his plate. I even wore the dress he liked, the soft one with the open back that made him call me “his daydream.”

I kept glancing at the clock. 6PM. He’s probably wrapping up at work. 8PM. Okay, maybe an emergency meeting. 10PM. Still no text. My stomach began twisting.

Midnight came and went.

His phone was off. Not silenced.

Not “I’m-in-a-meeting-can’t-talk” off. Just off. Like he’d fallen off the face of the earth.

I called. Twice. Four times. Left a voicemail. Nothing. My head started running through a thousand awful scenarios. Car crash. Robbery. A work emergency. I checked T*****r to see if there was an explosion on the expressway. Nothing.

I tried to hold it together. I sat on the couch in silence, staring at the flickering candles, now stubby wax puddles, while the cake slowly collapsed into itself. The smell of lemon and vanilla filled the room, but it only made the emptiness worse.

At 1:23AM, I heard the key turn in the lock.

I rushed to the door, heart in my throat. “Alex?”

He walked in slowly, rain dripping from his hair. His coat was soaked through, and he looked…off. Not tired, not drained. Just… empty.

“Oh my God, you scared me,” I said, running toward him, a smile starting to form. “I’ve been so worried—”

Before I could touch him, he slapped me. A crack of sound, then skin hitting skin.

My head whipped to the side. The sting bloomed on my cheek instantly, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe.

My hand flew to my face. “Alex…?”

He didn’t say anything. Just reached into his coat, pulled out a folded, damp piece of paper, and tossed it at me like it was garbage.

I stood there, shaking, staring at the paper on the floor. Finally, I picked it up, my fingers trembling.

It was a letter. No, a confession.

Mr. Marwood,

Please accept my deepest apologies for the crime I committed…

I scanned the words quickly, barely comprehending, my eyes racing as my heart pounded harder with every sentence.

It was from a man I didn’t even know, claiming that two years ago, he had accepted ten thousand dollars to kill Alex’s parents.

Money that allegedly came from me. And my mother.

The same woman who had once baked cookies for Alex on his birthday and cried when Alex was sick.

The letter claimed we paid this man to orchestrate the hit-and-run that took Alex’s parents’ lives. To separate him from Sophie; his ex. My stepsister.

To force him to let go of his past so I could take her place.

And if that wasn’t enough, the man claimed we made him kidnap Sophie afterward. Threatened him. Told him he wouldn’t get the money unless he ensured she stayed away. All of it laid out in chilling detail. Names. Dates. Bank transfers.

And stapled to the corner?

Screenshots of transactions. My name. My mother’s.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even speak. “This… This isn’t real. Alex, I swear to you—this isn’t real. Someone made this up. I would never… I’m carrying your baby. I’m a month pregnant.”

He finally looked at me. And I wish he hadn’t. Because the way he looked at me? It was like I was nothing. Like he had just scraped me off the bottom of his shoe.

“You’re a month pregnant, huh?” he said, voice low, empty of warmth.

“Yes.” I whispered it like it might fix something.

He gave a short, cruel laugh. “Of course. Perfect timing.”

I took a step toward him. “Alex, listen to me… none of this is true. I don’t know who wrote that. I would never—”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t you dare pretend like you’re innocent. Is this pregnancy just another move in the plan? A way to lock me in? Is this what you and Eleanor cooked up after the Sophie stunt didn’t work? Plant a baby in me and hope I forget everything?”

“No!” I was crying now. “This baby wasn’t a plan. It just happened. I was going to surprise you tonight because I thought… I thought we were happy.”

He shook his head. “Happy? You thought we were happy?” He barked a laugh that didn’t sound anything like him. “If it weren’t for my parents pushing me to do the ‘right thing,’ I never would’ve married you. Never. It was supposed to be Sophie. And you knew that.”

“We were dating, Alex! You and I were together too!” My voice cracked. “You loved me once.”

“I didn’t,” he said coldly. “You forced yourself between us. You knew I loved Sophie. You knew she was the one. But you played the good girl. The sweet, reliable one. And now I know why. You wanted to kill my parents and paid someone to kidnap the woman I loved.”

“That’s not true!” I screamed.

“But it makes sense now,” he went on. “Everything fits. The way your mother suddenly became so chummy with mine. The job. The timing. The manipulation. And now this baby.”

I stepped back, as if physically hit again. “You really think I’d go this far?”

He stared at me for a long time. “You know something, Stella? If you didn’t look a little like Sophie, I probably wouldn’t have even touched you.”

The room spun.

I collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. Ugly, broken, chest-heaving sobs. The kind that made your stomach hurt. I clutched at my belly as if I could protect the life inside me from the hatred being hurled around us.

He stepped past me like I wasn’t there and dropped a thick folder onto the table.

“Sign the divorce papers.”

I looked up through tears, heart thudding.

“Sign them tonight,” he said, “and I won’t fire your brother. I won’t ruin his career. Or press charges about what happened.”

I shook my head, trembling. “Josh has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Then prove it. Sign the papers.”

And with that, he walked out. Just like that, without any hesitation or regret.

The door slammed behind him, and I was left alone with the flickering candles, the burned lemon cake, and a sonogram photo that suddenly felt like a cruel reminder of everything I just lost.

Happy anniversary to me.