The Billionaire’s Bloody Regret

Julian didn’t wait for explanations.

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I’m tired of you. Five years of marriage, and you haven't given me a child. I can’t continue this charade.”

The words hit her like a physical blow. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat had tightened into a knot; no sound came out.

He didn't touch her. He didn't even look at her as he continued.

“I’m done. I want a divorce.”

The room spun. The familiar comfort of their living room suddenly felt oppressive and alien.

‘A divorce?’

The word echoed in the suffocating space between them, sharp and incomprehensible.

Evelyn’s mind scrambled, grasping for a point of reference, any moment in the last five years that could have led to this glacial pronouncement.

There was nothing.

Just yesterday, they were fine. 

More than fine. 

They had sat side by side on this very sofa, laughing at a silly movie. He had pulled her close, his arm warm and heavy around her shoulders, the unshakable foundation of her world.

Even this morning, he had kissed her. 

As he left for the office, he paused at the door to give her that lingering kiss that always made her heart flutter. He had flashed that characteristic, slightly crooked, boyish smile.

“See you tonight, love,” he’d promised.

She remembered walking to the door just now with a hopeful lightness in her step, ready to greet him. But he hadn’t let her get close. 

The moment he stepped inside, he shoved her aside, not violently, but with a cold, firm detachment that was worse than anger, and delivered his sentence.

It was a nightmare. A jarring fissure in the perfectly smooth landscape of her life.

“Five years,” she whispered, the shock finally giving way to a cold certainty in her chest.

Five years of planning, building, and loving, dismissed in two heartless sentences. Their failure to conceive had been a quiet, shared sorrow. 

Now, Julian had weaponized it.

This wasn’t a sudden fit of temper; it was a calculated execution.

“What do you mean…?” Her voice was a raspy whisper.

Julian’s mouth twisted, his mask of detachment cracking to reveal a flicker of sharp annoyance. 

“There’s no need to think about it,” he snapped.

His gaze finally locked onto hers, and Evelyn flinched. 

The eyes looking back were not the gentle hazel she knew; they were chilling, calculating, and utterly foreign.

“I want your response. Now.”

She shook her head violently, a white-hot surge of refusal rising within her. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back.

“No! I won’t agree to this!” she yelled, the sound raw and desperate. “That’s a lame excuse, Julian! Five years—and you throw it away because of something we’ve been trying to fix? I won't do it.”

A dark flush crept up Julian’s neck. His composure was shattered. 

In one swift, terrifying movement, he closed the distance. His hand shot out, his fingers clamping around her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to stop her breathing, but it was firm, a visceral promise of violence.

“You will agree to it, Evelyn,” he hissed, his face inches from hers, eyes blazing with a frightening fury. “You’d better agree, and you’d better do it quickly.”

Evelyn gasped, clawing weakly at his wrist. Panic flooded her system. Then, a bright, jarring chime cut through the tension.

Buzz!

Julian cursed under his breath. He dropped her instantly, as if her skin burned him. Evelyn staggered back, clutching her neck. 

Without a glance at her, Julian snatched up his phone.

“By the time I return,” he bit out, his attention already shifting to the caller, “you had better have made up your mind.”

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He didn’t hand them to her; he tossed them onto the desk like trash.

Then he was gone.

The front door slammed, the echo leaving behind a profound, terrible silence. 

Evelyn’s legs gave out, and she collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug. She lay there trembling, staring at the closed door, the divorce papers scattered like fallen leaves.

‘This isn’t happening.’

She remained on the floor for what felt like an eternity. 

After several minutes, she crawled toward the desk. She picked up the top sheet, her fingers brushing the cold, formal letterhead.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

A wave of gut-wrenching grief overwhelmed her. She clutched the paper to her chest, rocking back and forth. 

“It’s a mistake. I imagined it,” she sobbed, clinging to the hope that this was a stress-induced hallucination.

But the paper was real. The crisp edges and official print offered only brutal honesty.

In a surge of frantic denial, she began to tear the documents apart. She ripped the pages into jagged strips, the sound punctuating her sobs.

She wanted to obliterate the evidence, as if destroying the papers could undo the conversation.

Exhausted, she stumbled up the grand staircase to the master bathroom. She splashed cold water over her face, scrubbing her skin to erase the afternoon. 

Then she looked in the mirror.

She froze.

It wasn't just the red, swollen eyes. 

It was the angry splotches and faint, bruised fingerprints already forming on the delicate skin of her throat.

The mark was real. The monster was real.

She walked back downstairs with heavy, robotic steps and collapsed onto the sofa. She stared blankly at the shredded paper on the rug until the silence was broken by a ringing phone.

Evelyn looked at the screen. The caller ID displayed a name she had learned to dread:

Mother-in-law.