Divorced By My Ex, Married To A Billionaire.

Alexis.

I swiped the keycard through the lock, the green light flashing with an obedient click. The hotel door swung open, and I stepped inside. The room was dim, but not empty.

My heart sank. 

There he was—my husband and his secretary on the bed, naked and having sex. They didn't even notice I was standing there.Idiots!

My mouth went dry. For a moment, all I could do was stare. My vision blurred with fury, betrayal clamping down on my chest. I reached into my bag, hands shaking, and yanked out the envelope the private investigator had sent me.

“You think I wouldn’t find out?” I snapped, my voice echoing too loud in the silent room. I threw the photos at him. They fluttered to the floor like ash. Proof of the lies, the cheating, the hours he claimed to be in meetings when he was really here.

He looked shocked, then angry. “Alexis—”

“Don’t,” I hissed, turning on my heel before he could touch me, before or lie again. I didn’t want his explanations or his voice in my head. I just wanted to be away from him. 

I drove home in silence, all those promises— were nothing but a bed of lies. 

As soon as I stepped inside the house we once called ours, the sobs tore out of me. I collapsed to the floor, my fists clenched, makeup staining my sleeves. But then, something in me snapped.

And I found myself laughing. 

At how blind I’d been and at the irony of building an empire with someone who was already planning to take it away.

The front door opened behind me. I turned around.

“You had me followed!” his voice rang out, annoyed. Not an ounce of guilt

“You had me betrayed. Kevin, Stephanie?! Really?,” I bit back.

“ You know what, we're done, Alexis. I already filed for divorce. A month ago,” he added, walking over and throwing the paperwork onto the table like it was some final trump card.

My heart stilled. A month ago?

I picked up the papers with trembling hands and gasped.

What the hell! He was claiming the company!

“You can’t do this,” I said, stunned.

“I can. I invested in it. Just like I invested in this house. You wouldn't have had it without me.”

It felt like a hot slap. The way he said it—as if everything we’d built had only ever been his to begin with.

I didn’t scream or cry. Not in front of that stupid man. 

~~~~~~

Apparently, getting your heart broken wasn’t dramatic enough for Kevin.

No, he had to kick me out too. And not in a subtle, “maybe you should pack a bag” kind of way.

My suitcase landed on the front steps away from the door. Then came the second bag. Then my shoes—one by one, like a sad parade of rejection.

I stood there, frozen, as Stephanie walked up the driveway.

That homewrecker barbie! 

Waltzing in with her Louis Vuitton like she hadn’t just wrecked a marriage and a life. She stepped on my clothes—my favorite silk blouse, no less—and cackled like a witch.

“Oh no,” she said mockingly, not even looking at me, “didn’t know this came with a sidewalk fashion show.”

 My husband, who once cried because I forgot to reply to his text was now laughing with the woman he cheated on me with—while I picked my underwear off the pavement.

I didn't say a word. I just picked up my things like a woman who refused to be broken in front of people who didn’t deserve the privilege.

I hailed a cab, holding back tears through the entire ride to a hotel. But the second I shut the door to that tiny room with the weird floral curtains and air conditioner that hummed louder than my self-esteem? I collapsed on the bed.

I finally let out an ugly, hiccuping snot cry.

Where did I go wrong?

I was the perfect wife. I cooked, cleaned, supported his stupid dream of turning our guest room into a cigar lounge. I even pretended to care about his crypto obsession.

I gave everything—my time, my love, my ideas. I built a business from scratch while he strutted around pretending he was the brains behind it all. And now, he gets to keep the house and the secretary too?!

Was it because I didn’t want to have kids yet? Or the fact that I wasn’t ready to give up my career to play needy wife?

I stared at the cracked hotel ceiling.

Turns out betrayal doesn’t just break your heart—it empties your bank account, too.

Kevin, in his infinite pettiness, had wiped my accounts clean. Every cent and savings gone. 

Luckily, I had a secret stash—a dusty little private account I hadn’t touched in years. Just enough for few month’s rent on a shoebox apartment that came with haunted house vibes. 

~~~~

Six months later on new years eve, I went out to the river.

I stripped naked and walked into the water like some naked forest nymph having a mental breakdown. It was cold, dark and quiet. The kind that makes you ask hard questions—Do I want to die? Or do I just want to feel something real?

The water didn’t answer. But it didn’t drown me either. Which I took as a sign.

I stood there, letting the river wash off the pain, the anger, the sticky guilt of wondering if this was all my fault. Then walked out of the river. 

Crack!

A twig snapped somewhere in the woods.

I froze. 

“Damn,” I whispered to myself. “Now I’m about to get murdered naked. Perfect storyline to a tragic murder docu-series. ”

But no one is on sight. Just the wind and my reading heart.

I walked out, dried off, and promised myself one thing: If I was going to rebuild my life, it wasn’t going to be with tears. 

~~~~~

The next morning, I landed a job.

A cleaning gig in a penthouse.

I didn’t care that it was a fall from grace. It was a job and a chance for new start. And honestly, I was kinda ready to scrub someone else’s toilet if it meant eating something better than instant noodles. I'm two months late on rent, I've been playing cat and mouse with my landlord. 

I got up early, dressed in my nicest “not so depressed” outfit, and hit the road. Coffee in hand, music blaring, I even caught myself singing.

Then Swoosh! A blood-red Ferrari nearly sideswiped me into oblivion.

“What the actual—?!” I screamed, swerving back into my lane like a pro.

As fate would have it, there was a red light ahead. I pulled up next to the idiot, rolled down my window—ready to deliver a lecture on reckless driving.

The driver rolled his down too.

And my words caught. 

Because this man was hot enough to make bad decisions for. Like Greek god in a suit kind hot. Hair tousled just right. Jawline sharp enough to slice bread, he donned a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. 

He looked at me like I was the problem. “Maybe stick to riding a bus if you can’t handle the road little girl.”

I blinked. Then narrowed my eyes. “Fuck you. Douchebag!”

He smirked. 

And with that, he sped off, his stupid sexy car growling like a dragon.

I sat there gritting my teeth. “Why are rich, handsome men so allergic to humility?”

The light turned green. I exhaled and drove off. Not today satan! 

Today, I was going to my first decent job in Manhattan. 

Who knows.

I might end up married to a billionaire.