Part 3The Billionaire's Divorce Papers

Throughout the entire family dinner, Wyatt acted completely normal. I hated myself for it, but I just sat there, quiet. The old me would have thrown down my fork and started a fight right then and there.

Back then, I thought I could stick to my principles: no matter how much you love a man, you always put yourself first.

Now, I found I couldn’t even bring myself to ask the question. I was terrified he’d say yes. That’s when the humiliation would truly become unbearable.

Wyatt was the first to finish. He stood, put on his jacket, said a quick goodbye to his parents, and then turned to me. “I’ve already spoken to the driver. He’ll take you home in a bit. I have something this afternoon.”

He used to tell me where he was going. He never would have left me alone at a family event.

He’d never said the words “I love you” outright, but for three years, his actions had screamed them. He was attentive, thoughtful to a fault. He remembered every anniversary, never let a word I said fall on deaf ears, and was so attuned to my moods he could preemptively avoid anything that might upset me.

He had a wonderful temper, gently absorbing all my rough edges and bad habits. When I made a mistake, he never got angry. He’d just smile, smooth back my hair, and patiently show me the right way.

So I believed he loved me. No one could be that patient, that tender, with someone they didn’t love.

But I’d forgotten one crucial, fatal detail. Wyatt Hayes was a good person to his core. He was good to everyone. I just happened to have the title of “wife,” which meant he was simply better to me.

I didn’t know it then, but that absurd thought, one I would have scoffed at just weeks ago, would soon wrap around me like a venomous snake.

From that day on, Wyatt was always out early and back late. The only constant was the good morning kiss he’d demand before he left, a ritual he never skipped.

I tried to use these “habits” of his to soothe the growing anxiety in my chest, but every day was a battle, oscillating between the urge to confront him and the need to stay silent. Sleep became a distant memory.

One night, I tossed and turned so much I woke him. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his lips warm against my neck. “Is it that time of the month? Is that why you can’t sleep? Does it help if I hold you?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

Tears immediately pricked my eyes. I had always told myself I would never become one of those women, clinging and emotional, letting unfounded suspicions drive me crazy.

But this was different. This was a real sense of crisis, the very feeling I used to look down on with such disdain.

My mind was a slideshow of the “relationship details” Angelica had made sure I’d see, of the genuine affection I’d witnessed between them years ago. And the undeniable fact that she was the one who had ended things…

“Wyatt…”

“When you get back from your trip, let’s talk.”

I fought to keep my voice even. I had to talk to him, openly. Whether he went to the airport or not, whatever his reasons were, I just needed an answer that would silence the storm of doubt in my head.

He was so tired his eyes could barely stay open. He just nuzzled his head against mine and mumbled, “Mmm.”

But we never got the chance to have that calm, rational conversation.