The Billionaire Behind My Divorce

ALICIA

The gold-plated letters spelling RUTHERFORD gleamed against polished black marble, catching the soft glow of chandelier light that spilled through the restaurant’s glass façade. The name was more than branding; it was legacy. A reputation that turned reservations into currency among the city’s elite.

Crystal chandeliers floated overhead like suspended constellations, their light reflecting off champagne flutes arranged with mathematical precision. Waiters in tailored uniforms moved soundlessly across Italian marble floors, each step practiced, each gesture rehearsed to perfection. Conversations never rose above a cultured murmur. Even laughter here knew its place.

Alicia Connard-Rutherford single-handedly ran every enterprise her family owned. The staff loved her and treated her with flawless respect. Yet, tonight, seated beneath the restaurant bearing her own name, she felt like a guest waiting for permission to belong.

Her grip tightened around the wine glass. He wasn’t coming. He had never chosen her. Not once. But today she thought he would make an exception. If at all, for their son, whose legs swung frivolously from the big chair he sat on.

She looked at her six-year-old across from her, reaching her fingers to pat his silky hair and stroke his cheek. Tears stung in her eyes, but she couldn’t let them fall for his sake. It was one thing to neglect her, but to neglect their son was something she wouldn’t understand.

“Mommy,” Tobey looked up at her with wide innocent eyes, “When is daddy getting here?” he asked, voice frail, as if he too could feel the true weight of the situation.

“Maybe soon, baby,” Alicia replied, forcing a smile. Her voice had given out, and her words came out broken in a whisper.

Across the table, her son yawned, fighting sleep but refusing to complain. He kept glancing toward the entrance with hopeful loyalty that twisted painfully in her chest.

“He’ll come, Mommy,” the boy murmured.

She smiled automatically, smoothing his hair. “Of course.”

The lie tasted bitter.

“Is there anything else we can get you, Madam?” A waitress came over to ask.

It was the fourth time they were offering, and she was getting sick of it.

“Pack everything. And send a portion of tonight’s special to go.” She replied, her tone devoid of emotion. Her eyes had already grown cold.

“Yes, Madam Rutherford.” The waitress bowed.

The woman bowed and left quickly, relieved to escape the tension she was trained not to acknowledge.

Alicia exhaled slowly.

She texted Elias.

‘Take Tobey home.’

Then she helped her son down, adjusting his jacket with hands that were too steady to match what she felt inside.

A few minutes later, the doors opened.

Elias stepped in, and Tobey’s entire face lit up.

“Mr. Elias!”

He ran straight into him.

Elias lifted him easily, like he weighed nothing. “There he is. My little man.”

Alicia watched it - how easily her son smiled for someone who wasn’t his father. How easily someone else gave him what should have been normal.

Her chest tightened, but she refused to let it show.

“Take him home,” she said quietly. “And tell Marissa to make sure he eats before bed.” Her voice wavered at the end, just slightly enough to betray her.

Still, she swallowed it down and made an attempt to smile.

Elias noticed. He always did, but he knew not to say anything. He only nodded, shifting the boxes of food into his hands.

At the door, Tobey twisted in his arms. “Happy birthday, Mommy!” he called brightly.

That did it.

Something cracked in her expression, just for a second, before she fixed it.

She chuckled lightly.

“Thank you, my love.”

She watched them until they vanished behind the doors. Then she let out a deep sigh and poured herself another glass of wine.

The crystal caught the chandelier light as the liquid trembled slightly in her hand. She didn’t realize she was shaking until the glass tapped softly against the bottle.

Eight twenty-three.

Her eyes flicked toward the entrance again out of habit - foolish, stubborn habit - before she forced herself to look away.

He wasn’t coming.

Levi had perfected the art of absence. It was never dramatic enough to be called cruelty, never blatant enough to justify anger. Just enough neglect to make her question whether she was asking for too much.

A birthday dinner with his wife. Apparently, that qualified as too much.

Her phone vibrated against the table.

For a second, hope surged, ridiculous as that was, and she grabbed it quickly.

Levi.

Her chest tightened.

But it wasn’t a message, it was an I*******m notification.

She stared at Iris’ recently posted photo. Iris, her only friend, who hadn’t yet wished her a happy birthday either.

Levi stood in a brightly lit living room, and she recognized instantly - Iris’s house. Balloons floated near the ceiling. Iris laughed beside him, one arm looped comfortably through his, while a tiny golden puppy sat in her lap wearing a ridiculous ribbon.

Celebrating Luna’s arrival! The caption read beneath the picture.

Her husband looked relaxed. Happy. Present.

Everything he never was with her.

The restaurant’s soft music faded into nothing as heat crept up her throat.

A puppy.

He had missed his wife’s birthday dinner - the dinner she arranged at her own family’s restaurant - to celebrate a puppy.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She waited for a message from Levi. An apology. An explanation. An excuse.

Nothing came.

Of course not.

Around her, Rutherford continued to glow with effortless perfection. But the waiters glided about, stealing glances. Voices hushed in fierce whispers, not low enough. Somewhere nearby, someone quoted the scripture, ‘the poor woman, all that affluence, and no joy.’

She locked her phone slowly and set it face down.

Something inside her settled then.

Not anger.

Not even sadness.

Just… exhaustion.

The quiet acceptance of hopelessness. She finished her wine in one long swallow. She stood up with the glass in her hand and made her way to one of the velvet-partitioned private rooms.

The manager noticed immediately, hurrying toward her. “Madam Rutherford, shall we prepare the birthday dessert?”

She shook her head.

“No cake.” Her voice came out calm, detached. “Just send more wine.”

“How many bottles, ma’am?”

She considered for only a moment.

“All of them.”

The manager hesitated, surprised despite his training. More gently, he began to speak again.

“Um.. Madam, there’s someone-”

She met his eyes, offering a faint, almost dangerous smile.

“George, it’s my birthday.”

Minutes later, she sat alone in the private room as bottles arrived one after another, red, white, and champagne, each opened with ceremonial precision before the staff quietly withdrew.

The door closed.

Silence settled.

She poured again.

The first glass burned pleasantly. The second softened the tight knot in her chest. By the third, the ache inside her felt distant, muted, manageable.

She laughed once under her breath.

Connard-Rutherford, the city’s symbol of perfection, and here she was, drinking alone on her birthday while her husband celebrated a dog with another woman.

Maybe this was what giving up felt like. Just the decision to stop caring.

She leaned back against the velvet seat, lifting her glass in a mock toast.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“Of course,” she murmured. “A puppy.” Then, quieter, “What a joke.”

That was when she felt it, another presence in the room, but she didn’t turn. Her hand tightened slightly around the glass. About three feet from her, someone had been seated, silent the whole time.