Divorced by my Billionaire Ex, Now He Wants Me Back!

Stella. I wasn’t expecting to start my third wedding anniversary with my little brother calling me at the crack of dawn and announcing that I’m a month pregnant. But here we are.“Congratulations, sis! You’re pregnant for a month!” Josh blurted out like he was telling me I’d won the lottery. Which, I guess, in a way, I had.I blinked, squinting at the sunlight filtering through the blinds. “Josh, what the hell are you talking about?”“You’re pregnant. One month in. I ran the tests twice. Triple-checked your hormone levels. You’re very knocked up.”And that was Josh for you; future doctor, current lunatic, and always ten steps ahead of the people around him. He must have done it after I asked him to check on those strange symptoms last week. I thought I was just stressed. Maybe hormonal. Maybe even mildly insane. Turns out, I was pregnant.With Alex’s baby.I just sat there, stunned, clutching the phone, processing that my body had been hiding something so monumental from me. I touche

3Stella.I woke up to the sterile hum of fluorescent lights and the faint beeping of a heart monitor. The sheets smelled like bleach, and my mouth was dry enough to feel like sandpaper. Hospital ceilings were always the same; square tiles, perfectly dull, perfectly meaningless, but I stared at them anyway because the alternative was trying to figure out why my body felt so hollow.And then I felt it. Not pain exactly, but a dull ache in my lower abdomen that made me bolt upright before the room spun and I had to grip the rail of the bed like it might fly away.“Stella, slow down,” came Josh’s voice, soft and close. He was sitting by my side, his warm hands gently wrapped around my icy fingers like he was trying to hold me together.My eyes landed on him, and I noticed the shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion in his posture, like he’d been there for hours. Maybe he had.But he wasn’t who I was looking for.“Where’s Alex?” The question left my mouth before I could stop it.Josh didn’

5Stella. Packing a life into boxes is supposed to be quick if you don’t have much left. Or so people say. But nobody tells you about the quiet, aching way time stretches, every minute thick with memories you don’t want but can’t escape. The sun was barely up when I began, washing the bedroom in watery gold, everything sharp and brittle with that cold, early light. My suitcase waited, open-mouthed and accusing, in the center of the room. I found myself staring at it the way you stare at a blank test you know you’re going to fail.I moved like I was underwater. Sweater, jeans, toothbrush, charger, all landing in neat little stacks that meant nothing and everything. I left most things behind; the fancy dresses I bought hoping to impress him at some Marwood party, the designer heels that always pinched, the jewelry Alex’s mother gave me that never felt like mine. I kept the essentials. A threadbare T-shirt that smelled like my mother. The book I’d read every time I was lonely, pages sof

7Alex’s POV.The office was dark except for the glow of my desk lamp. My PA stood there, files pressed so tightly to his chest I half expected him to bruise. His eyes darted from the folder to me and back again, like he was weighing whether to hand me a loaded gun or an overdue utility bill.“Sir, there’s been a development. You’ll want to see this immediately.”I didn’t bother sitting. “What is it?”He set the file down in front of me. “We were preparing to transfer the alimony, as instructed. Routine, or so I thought. But Stella’s account bounced the payment. I tried the backup numbers and accounts, but… sir, she’s wiped everything. There’s no working contact, no active account. It’s like she’s…gone.”He waited for a reaction. I gave him none. My heart was beating hard in my chest but I held his gaze, expression flat. “So find her brother. Josh Harrington. He worked for us. There must be a record.”“We checked. He resigned the same week Stella left. No forwarding address. No job app

9Stella.EIGHT MONTHS LATERWe had picked a city where no one knew our names and an apartment that smelled like new paint and borrowed courage. Josh installed the second lock himself because the locksmith was “too friendly with the hinges.” He said it as a joke; he didn’t smile.“New SIMs,” he said, sliding mine across the counter. “Use cash today. No food apps.”“Copy,” I said, even though I wanted pancakes that arrived with emojis.He made eggs and burned the bread on purpose so the fire alarm would scream. “Good,” he said, waving a dish towel. “Sensitive. If someone even breathes wrong, it tattles.”I laughed. It sounded like someone else’s laugh, but it worked.We had rules: curtains closed at night, shoes inside the door, phone in the bowl, don’t answer unknown numbers, trust your spine over your hope. Also: talk to the baby, even if it looks like you’re talking to a bowl of oats. The baby answered with small waves, polite but determined.By noon, the place looked like people li