The Billionaire Ex-Wife He Never Divorced

Selene's Pov

My heart is filled with excitement as I burst into the cab waiting right in front of me. I graduated today with honour, the top in my class at Willbrook City College, and I couldn't stop smiling.

Four years of eighteen-hour study sessions, surviving on constant noodles and determination, watching my course mates go back to their families who always check on them while I sat alone in my dorm room, but I had done it.

The ceremony had been small; most graduating families filled the auditorium cheering up their own while I sat at the back seat clapping for my own name when they called it. But it doesn’t matter anymore; I had something that was mine, something worth the pain.

The sunlight filtered through the cab windows, making everything seem achievable and optimistic. At twenty-three, for the first time I feel liberated.

“You work here or something?” the cab driver said, interrupting my thoughts. His gaze shifted toward the massive iron gate ahead, ornate and cold, twelve feet of sculpted metal twisted into roses that would never bloom. “Are we in the right place?”

He looked at me again through the rearview mirror, brows furrowed. “You’re lucky. This is Senator Rowe’s residence.”

I offered him a faded smile, fingering the edge of my diploma certificate. I didn't correct him.

Luck had nothing to do with living here.

A maid, they called me. A mistake. But I was his daughter. A daughter born unintentionally wasn’t lucky; she was bought with silence and shame.

The cab stopped at the gravel, which likely cost more than some people's entire assets. As I stepped out of the cab, suddenly my smile faded; the weight of the estate pressed down on me like a familiar heaviness.

The joy I felt for hours seeped out immediately, unable to reach my heart. This wasn't homecoming; this was a return to a life that never quite fit.

I straightened my shoulder and walked confidently towards the front door, holding my diploma case tight, proof that I was more than what they made me.

Then, I opened the front door. The hall was huge, adorned with regal furnishings, with a scent of lemon polish. Beautiful, perfect, and empty.

I made my way to the marble hallway, which was filled with voices from the reporters, the kind reserved for crisis. I followed the sound to the living room, where my family's gaze was transfixed on the television, which had breaking news boldly written in red ink.

The news update on screen reads, “Lucien Ashbourne, heir to Ashbourne Industries, remains in critical condition following his car accident. Will they delay the wedding? No words from family yet.”

My breath caught. “Lucien, Cassia's fiance, was supposed to marry her next week. I'd seen their engagement photos,” I whispered to no one.

The screen showed footage of twisted metal and shattered glass; I felt a twinge of sadness. Then a photo of him, his dark hair, and sharp jawline with green eyes that seemed to see straight through the camera.

He was beautiful, perfect for my perfect sister.

Now he was broken.

Cassie sat poised on the green sofa, her blonde hair falling in waves down her shoulder; she looked unbothered by the tragedy, as if sorrow was something that happens to other people. Her manicured red fingers were properly fixed to her drink while my stepmother sat close to her, stiff as a statue.

“Poor Lucien,” Cassie murmured, though nothing in her voice suggested pity.

Father stood by the mantle; he held the scotch glass with his shaky hands. His jaw worked silently the way it did when political deals crumbled.

That was when Father finally noticed me.

His eyes swept me once, calculating, like he was measuring fabric for a dress. Something shifted in his expression, like a spark of possibility.

“Perfect, she’s here,” he said, cutting through the news anchor’s monotone. “Come, Selene, sit.”

A chill unravelled in my stomach, but I obliged.

Silence stretched between us like a held breath for a few minutes. On the screen, the news had changed to viewing the weather forecast.

He began, “Lucien’s still alive. Ashbourne's family expects a wife.” Father said, “Cassie will not be attending.”

My heart skipped. “I don't understand.”

Cassia's laugh was like breaking crystal. “You expect me to marry a half-dead man? A man who can't walk can't even talk. They said he's deformed now.” She carefully sets down her wine glass. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

“This is your chance to finally do something useful, Selene; you owe this family everything.” My stepmother's voice dripped with venom as she spoke.

The word hit like cold water. Twenty-three years of being fed, clothed, and educated are all tallied like entries in a ledger, and all require payment.

Father's eyes gazed at mine emotionlessly. “Time to pay back, Selene.”

My mouth unconsciously separated; Father's words left me speechless. The diploma certificate in my bag seemed like a mockery to me now. Four years of straight A's, honours societies, and a dream for business school shattered and erased by a man’s signature on paper I had never seen.

I tried to speak, to scream, to flee, but my voice betrayed me; even if I did speak, they never heard me.

***

Three days later, I found myself in the cold room of the Ashbourne's estate watching the lawyer slide the document over to me on a crystal mahogany table. Prenup, name change, NDA.

There were no guests, not even my family, no flowers, no cakes, just ink and the scratch of papers signing off what remained of my life.

“The grandmother is sick. She would have stopped this madness; she was the only one who liked the boy,” I caught an old staff member whispering.

Then a man entered like the wind. He is tall, silver-haired, and well fashioned. He introduced himself as Uncle Benedict Ashbourne. His pale, dangerous eyes scanned me. “Don't get too comfortable,” he said, adjusting his coat. “This is just temporal.”

My hand remained steady as I signed the paper; I've gotten used to betraying myself.

And just like that, I became Mrs. Ashbourne.

***

Lucien's mansion loomed from the meticulous grounds like something from gothic nightmares. The residence had regal furnishings yet was as silent as a tomb. I was led through Lucien’s house by a maid, kind but distant, guiding me through the house. The place was quiet. Huge. Clinical.

No wedding ring to adorn my fingers, no greetings to welcome me home. Just an additional name and a room that would never feel like home.

That night, sleep escaped me, and the only sound I heard was my heartbeat and the noise of the distant expensive air conditioner.

Instantly, I noticed two black SUVs heading towards the mansion from the window. When it stopped in the premises, I observed men in black suits opening the doors with practiced precision, pulling out the stretcher and a man constrained to it.

I saw how broken he was. He was still with bandages over his head, hands, and two legs, unconscious. They carried him like someone who had already lost value.

Uncle Benedict’s words cut through the night: “There, he can die in peace now. We gave him a wife.”

I stood at the window long after they left.

That night, after seeing a man who looked as lost as I felt, I made a promise.

He won’t die alone.

Not if I can help it.