After the Divorce, My Ex-husband came Crawling Back

*ARIANA*

The house was silent when I came back. I expected to hear footsteps or the sound of dishes. Usually, his assistant would be on the phone. But tonight the silence was heavy.

I took off my shoes at the door. I was tired down to my bones. The business trip had been exhausting, three days of presentations, negotiations, and smiling until my face ached. All of it to secure a deal that would reflect well on him, on his company, on the carefully constructed image of our marriage.

My head was aching. I knew this feeling well as the beginning of one of my episodes. I looked for my medicine in my bag, then paused.

"Shit," I had forgotten to take my morning dose, but the afternoon dose I usually never miss.

I decided to wait until I changed. I wanted to wash off the day and let myself pretend, just for a moment, that this house felt like home.

I walked up the stairs. The wood was rare and very costly. All of it was pretty but cold. The hall was full of silver frames. One of them was our wedding photo, we looked serious in it. He held my waist. It was sweet but felt fake. I spent three years being the perfect wife.

I opened the door to our bedroom and time stopped.

The bed was a mess of white sheets. Maxwell's bare back was to me, muscles shifting beneath skin I had memorized in the dark during our dutiful, scheduled intimacies. Another figure was half beneath him, long dark hair spilling across the pillow.

For a split second, I thought my mind was finally breaking. Then she turned her head. She was very pretty with soft skin. Her eyes showed a deep love I could never give him.

It was her. Selene, his first love.

He once said she taught him how to be a husband. She showed him that small things mattered. She was the one who left him years ago and shattered something in him that I was never quite able to repair.

My bag fell from my hand. He turned around. His eyes were wide but not guilty. He wasn't even shocked to see me. He was calm and in control.

"You're home early," he said.

That was all.

No apology. No explanation. No scramble to cover up or make excuses.

I felt my knees go weak. My fingers pressed into my palm, nails biting into flesh as if I could dig the shock out of my body through sheer physical pain.

"I forgot my medication," I whispered. My voice did not sound like mine. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away.

She sat up and did not seem to care. She acted like this was her room.

"You're the contract wife," she said, eyes raking over me with mild curiosity. "I heard about you."

I stepped back, my body moving before my mind could catch up. Then I