From Ruined to Reclaimed: Saved by the Billionaire

I used to think rain at a funeral was poetic.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

I stood alone at the front while strangers whispered behind me. Most of them were here for business. To be seen. To post a black-and-white filtered picture and write something vague like, “Rest well, sir.”

My father deserved more than that.

I stared at the polished coffin like it might suddenly open and he’d sit up, laugh, and say this was all some twisted business tactic.

A gust of wind blew against my side, tugging at the hem of my black dress, and I clutched my coat tighter. All around me, umbrellas swayed, heels sank into the mud, and still, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t leave him. Not yet.

“Claire.”

I didn’t have to turn. I knew that voice anywhere. Smooth. Deep. Cold.

Lucas.

My husband.

My breath caught, but not because I was happy to hear him. There was something about the way he said my name. It was off. Distant. Like a stranger saying it for the first time.

I turned to face him.

His suit was tailored, pressed, and perfectly dry. No umbrella. No mud on his shoes. Like the storm didn’t dare touch him. It used to be the thing I admired, how he always seemed so in control. Untouchable. But today… Today, it felt unnatural. Like I was seeing something I wasn’t meant to.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, his hand already reaching into his coat pocket.

“Not here,” I whispered quickly.

Lucas paused. His lips pressed into a line. For a second, I thought he’d argue, but then he slowly nodded and slipped whatever it was back into his pocket.

The silence between us was heavy. Uncomfortable. I tried to read his face. Tried to find the version of him I married, the one who used to touch the small of my back in crowded rooms, who’d pull me into bed on lazy Sundays and kiss me like the world was ending.

But today… His eyes were blank. Like he wasn’t even in his body. Like he was already somewhere else.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly, hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” he said. Nothing else.

Not Are you okay?

And maybe that’s when the first crack appeared.

We stood side by side for the rest of the service, but he didn’t hold my hand. Didn’t offer his coat when he saw me shiver. He just stared ahead, emotionless, while my father was lowered into the ground. His silence wasn’t peaceful, it was sharp. I could feel it cutting between us like a blade.

Something was wrong. I felt it in my bones.

Later That Night

I sat curled on the living room couch, arms wrapped around my knees, still in my funeral dress. Mascara smudged under my eyes. Hair falling from the bun I’d spent thirty minutes pinning up this morning. I looked like a widow in every sense.

Lucas was standing by the window, staring out into the city like it held all the answers. His hands were in his pockets. Posture relaxed. Too relaxed for a man who just watched his wife bury her father.

“I don’t think it’s really hit me yet,” I said quietly, more to myself than to him.

He didn’t respond. Not even a glance.

“I keep expecting my dad to call. Ask if I remembered to pay the groundskeepers or remind me to check on his stupid koi pond.” I gave a weak smile, trying to connect with him. “He liked you, you know. He never said it, but I could tell.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “Claire.”

There was something final in his voice. Like he wasn’t just about to say something, he was about to end something.

I straightened slowly. My stomach twisted.

“I said I needed to talk to you.”

I nodded. “Yeah… what is it?”

He turned, walked over, and dropped a manila envelope onto the glass coffee table.

“What’s this?”

I leaned forward, pulled it open with slightly trembling fingers… and froze.

Divorce papers.

I blinked, staring at the document like I couldn’t quite read. Like maybe the ink would rearrange itself into something else.

I looked up at him, confused. “What… what is this, Lucas? Some kind of mistake?”

His face didn’t change. “I’m ending our marriage.”

I stared at him, heart pounding. “What?”

“I no longer have use for you, Claire.”

The words slammed into me like a slap.

“What are you talking about?” I stood, the papers slipping from my lap to the floor. “We’re fine. We’ve always been fine. Lucas—This has to be a joke, right? Tell me this is a horrible, sick joke.”

“I’m not joking.”

My voice cracked. “You told me you loved me last week.”

“I lied.”

The silence stretched. Deafening.

He walked past me, casual, cold, like this was just another Monday.

Tears blurred my vision. “Was it someone else?”

Lucas didn’t stop walking. “You should sign them.”

I stood there in the middle of our living room, surrounded by silence and shattered illusions. “Lucas, look at me! Talk to me! What did I do? Is it the timing? Because I just lost my father—”

“It has nothing to do with your father.”

“Then what is it?” I screamed, voice raw.

He finally turned. His expression was hard. Unreadable. Like stone.

“I’m done. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t believe you,” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice. “You don’t just wake up one morning and decide you’re done. We were happy. We were—”

My hands flew to my mouth to stop the sob clawing its way out of my throat. My chest burned as I tried to hold myself together, but it was useless. I could feel myself cracking. Splintering.

I swallowed hard and looked at him. Looked at the man I thought I knew. The man who used to bring me breakfast in bed and hold my hand through storms.

“Please,” I said softly, desperately. “Don't do this. Not today. I just buried my father, Lucas. Please.”

His expression didn’t change. Cold. Controlled. Unmoved.

There was no softening. No guilt. Nothing.

“My mind’s made up,” he said, like he was discussing a stock report and not the end of our marriage. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

A tear slipped down my cheek. I didn’t even wipe it.

“Lucas,” I took a step toward him, shaking. “Please. Whatever this is, we can fix it. Talk to me, just—just give me a reason—”

“I don’t owe you reasons,” he cut in coldly. “And I have a meeting to get to.”

He walked past me like I didn’t exist.

At the door, he paused, hand already on the knob.

“By the time I get back,” he said without turning, “you should be gone.”

And just like that, the man I thought I’d spend forever with walked out of our home.