His Unwanted Wife Returned as a Boss

The aroma of slow-roasted lamb and rosemary filled the penthouse, a scent that usually meant "home." Today, it meant three years of devotion.

Clara adjusted the silk cloth on the candlelit table for the tenth time. She had spent six hours preparing this meal. In the center of the table, tucked under a napkin, lay a small velvet box—not with a piece of jewelry, but with a sonogram.

Six weeks. They were finally going to be a family.

The heavy mahogany door clicked open. Clara’s heart leaped. Julian was home.

"Julian! You're back. I was worried when you didn't answer—"

She stopped mid-sentence. Julian Thorne didn't look like a man coming home to his wife. He looked like a man finishing a chore. His tailored Armani suit was slightly rumpled, and the scent of a floral, feminine perfume—something expensive and cloying—hit Clara before he even reached the light.

It wasn't her perfume.

"Don't bother with the dinner, Clara," Julian said, his voice as cold as the winter wind rattling the windows of their Manhattan estate. He didn't even look at the table. He didn't see the candles or the vintage wine she’d tracked down.

"Julian, it’s our third anniversary," she whispered, her hand instinctively resting on her still-flat stomach. "I have something to tell you."

Julian finally looked at her, but there was no warmth in his obsidian eyes. Only a flicker of guilt that was quickly buried under a mountain of indifference. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a manila envelope.

"I have something to tell you, too."

He tossed the envelope onto the dinner table. It landed right on top of the sonogram box, knocking it over.

Clara’s breath hitched. She opened the envelope. The bold letters at the top felt like a physical blow to the chest: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

"Sarah is back," Julian said, his tone casual, as if he were discussing the weather. "She’s been diagnosed with a heart condition. She’s fragile, Clara. She needs me. She needs the status and protection that only I can provide."

"And what about me?" Clara’s voice trembled. "I’m your wife, Julian. I’ve been by your side for three years. I built this home for you. I—"

"You’re a strong woman, Clara." Julian stepped closer, the coldness in his gaze momentarily softening into a terrifying kind of pity. "You’ve always been independent. You don't need me the way she does. I’ve already instructed my lawyers to give you the downtown apartment and five million dollars. It’s more than enough for a woman of your background."

A woman of her background. He still thought she was just the daughter of a bankrupt farmer he’d "rescued" out of pity. He had no idea that "Clara Vance" was a mask. He had no idea she was the primary shareholder of the very tech conglomerate currently threatening his board of directors.

Clara looked at the man she had loved since she was eighteen. The man she had dimmed her own light for, just to let him shine.

The pain was so sharp it turned into a sudden, icy clarity.

"You’re leaving me because she’s weak?" Clara asked, a ghost of a smile touching her lips—a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"I’m leaving you because I never loved you, Clara. It was always her."

The velvet box containing the sonogram felt like a lead weight in her pocket. She looked at the divorce papers, then at the man who had just crushed her soul.

"Fine," Clara said. Her voice didn't shake this time. It was low, melodic, and dangerously calm.

She picked up a pen from the table and signed her name in a bold, elegant cursive—a signature that appeared on billion-dollar contracts he wasn't even allowed to see.

She pushed the papers back toward him.

"Keep your five million, Julian. You’re going to need every cent of it for the legal fees when I’m through with you."

Julian frowned, confused by the sudden shift in her aura. "What are you talking about?"

Clara walked to the door, grabbing nothing but her purse. She didn't need the clothes he’d bought her. She didn't need the memories.

"Goodbye, Julian," she said, pausing at the threshold. "Take a good look at this face. It’s the last time you’ll see it for free."

She slammed the door, leaving Julian standing in the middle of his silent, expensive tomb.

As she stepped into the elevator, Clara pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called in three years.

"Logan? It’s me. The 'Retirement' is over. Unlock the V-Tech accounts and call a press conference for tomorrow morning." Her eyes burned with a fierce, cold fire. "The Queen is coming back to her throne."

Then, she looked down at the sonogram in her hand and whispered, "It’s just us now, little one. And we’re going to own this world."