Divorced by the Billionaire Who still owns me

Elara’s Pov;

The email came in while I was standing in the kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug of coffee I never got to drink.

I noticed it because my phone vibrated twice instead of once. Adrian’s assistant usually sent messages that way. Short. Direct. Easy to ignore. But this time, it wasn’t his assistant.

It was his lawyer.

That alone made my stomach tighten.

I stood there staring at the sender’s name, waiting for my brain to catch up. Lawyers didn’t email unless something had already gone wrong. Adrian didn’t involve lawyers unless he’d already made a decision.

He liked things clean. Quiet. Controlled.

I opened the email.

There was no greeting.

No explanation.

Just an attachment.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

I blinked once, then again, like the word might change if I looked away long enough. My fingers hovered over the screen before I tapped the file open. The document loaded slowly, each second stretching thin.

Legal language filled the screen. Asset division. Confidentiality clauses. Timelines. Terms. My name appeared beside his as it had already been accepted, already processed.

It felt unreal.

I scrolled, faster now, my chest tightening with every page. I was looking for context. A reason. Something that sounded like a conversation had happened somewhere before this.

There was nothing.

My phone vibrated again before I could finish reading.

Please review and sign today so we can proceed accordingly.

Proceed.

That word sat heavily in my chest.

Proceed meant this wasn’t up for discussion.

Proceed meant Adrian had already moved on to the next step.

I set the phone down on the counter and leaned forward, gripping the edge. The coffee mug slipped from my hand and tipped over, dark liquid spreading across the counter and dripping onto the floor. I didn’t bother cleaning it up.

My stomach rolled suddenly, sharp and violent. I barely made it to the sink before gagging.

Nothing came up.

Just that hollow, sick feeling that made my hands shake and my knees weak.

“This can’t be happening,” I muttered, my voice sounding strange in the quiet apartment.

Last night replayed in fragments. I asked why he hadn’t come home. I asked why he never talked to me anymore. Him standing there, jacket still on, phone in his hand, already halfway gone.

“I can’t do this right now,” he’d said.

Then he walked out.

That wasn’t new. Adrian walked away from discomfort. From emotion. From anything that couldn’t be solved with a signature or a meeting.

But divorce?

Divorce didn’t fit the pattern.

I rinsed my mouth, grabbed my bag, and left the apartment without locking the door properly. I didn’t stop to think. Thinking would slow me down, and if I slowed down, I might fall apart.

I drove straight to his office.

Traffic felt unreal, like I was moving through it without fully being present. Red lights blurred past. Horns sounded distant. My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t look at it.

Security let me into the building without question. The guard nodded at me the way he always did, like this was a normal day. Like my marriage hadn’t just ended through an email.

That hurt more than I expected.

The elevator ride felt longer than usual. The mirrored walls reflected my face back at me, calm on the outside, hollow underneath. I didn’t look like a woman about to be divorced.

I looked like someone going to another uncomfortable conversation.

I didn’t knock.

Adrian was on the phone when I walked into his office. He stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, voice calm and controlled.

“No,” he said into the phone. “That won’t work. Fix it.”

He ended the call and turned toward me.

He didn’t look surprised.

That was the moment I knew this wasn’t a mistake.

“You sent lawyers,” I said. “You couldn’t even tell me yourself?”

“Elara”

“No.” I shook my head. “Don’t start like this. Just answer the question.”

He sighed slowly, like I’d interrupted something important. “This is the most efficient way to handle it.”

“Handle what?” I asked. “Our marriage?”

He walked back toward his desk, picked up a folder, then stopped as he remembered I was still there.

“I don’t have time for emotional discussions right now,” he said. “The company is dealing with a crisis.”

I stared at him. “So you decided to divorce me?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It looks simple,” I replied. “You already wrote the ending.”

He finally met my eyes. His expression was flat. Controlled. The same look he wore in boardrooms when negotiations were done.

“I can’t afford complications,” he said.

The word hit harder than I expected.

“Complications,” I repeated. “Is that what I am now?”

“Elara, you’re taking this personally.”

I laughed once, short and sharp. “I’m your wife. How else am I supposed to take it?”

He didn’t answer.

Silence filled the room, thick and familiar. This was how he won arguments. By waiting. By letting the other person talk themselves tired.

Something settled in my chest then. Not anger. Not grief.

Understanding.

“You already decided,” I said quietly.

“Yes.”

There it was. Simple. Final.

I nodded once. “Then you should’ve had the decency to say it to my face.”

I turned and walked out before he could respond. I didn’t want his reasons. I didn’t want his explanation. I didn’t want him to turn this into something logical and necessary.

By the time I reached my car, my hands were shaking so badly I dropped my keys twice before getting them into the ignition.

I sat there for a long moment without starting the engine.

My phone vibrated again.

Unknown number.

I ignored it.

It rang again. Then again.

Finally, a voicemail notification appeared.

“This is Mercy General Hospital calling for Elara Hayes regarding your test results. Please return our call as soon as possible.”

My stomach dropped.

Hospital?

I replayed the message once. Twice.

Divorce….Lawyers…..Hospital.

My head felt light, like I wasn’t fully in my body anymore. I pressed my palm against my stomach without thinking, my breath shallow.

Something wasn’t right.

I didn’t call back immediately.

I sat there in the car, staring at my phone, knowing deep down that whatever came next was going to make today worse.

And I wasn’t sure how much worse I could handle.