Broken And Betrayed: A Billionaire's Regret

My ten-year contract marriage was over. I had saved my sister's life by playing wife to a billionaire and mother to his two sons. Today, I was finally free.

But at my stepson's birthday party, my public execution began when a manipulated video starring my face was broadcast to all of New York's elite.

Then, my husband's ex-wife, Carolina, orchestrated my downfall. She injured herself and blamed me. The boys I raised screamed that I was a monster. And my husband, Justin, believing her lies, unleashed a verbal tirade so brutal that the sheer stress of it shattered the last fragile hope I held for our future.

He chose her. He chose the lie. He let that hope fade away.

But his mother, the woman who orchestrated our marriage, saved me. Months later, my ex-husband and stepsons found me in LA, crying and begging me to come home. I looked at the men who destroyed me and smiled.

"No," I said calmly. "I don't need you anymore."

Chapter 1

Alex Bennett POV:

Ten years. Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days. That was the price of my sister' s life. Today, the bill is paid in full. The contract is over.

I place the signed divorce agreement on the marble island in the center of our cavernous kitchen. The paper looks small and insignificant in the vast, empty space, a stark white flag of surrender-or maybe, of victory.

"Justin," I say, my voice steady. It doesn't even echo. This house was designed to swallow sound, to swallow lives. "I'm leaving."

He doesn't look up from his phone. He' s scrolling through market reports, his thumb moving with a relentless, detached rhythm. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows glints off his perfect, expensive haircut.

"Don't be dramatic, Alex," he mutters, his voice a low rumble of dismissal. "If this is about the Hamptons trip, I already told you, I have the fundraising dinner."

"It's not about the Hamptons." I push the papers an inch closer to his phone. "Our contract is up. It' s been ten years. I'm moving out."

He finally looks up, his blue eyes, the color of a frozen lake, narrowing in annoyance. He sees the document, but his expression doesn't change. It' s the same look he gives a subordinate who has delivered bad news. An inconvenience.

"Right. The 'contract'," he says, the word dripping with sarcasm. He leans back against his stool, crossing his arms over a chest clad in a bespoke shirt that costs more than my first car. "And where exactly do you plan on going?"

He' s not asking out of concern. He' s asking because my existence is a logistical item on his long list of assets and responsibilities. He' s calculating the disruption.

"That's no longer your concern," I reply, keeping my hands flat on the cool marble. I need the anchor.

He laughs, a short, humorless sound. "Alex, be serious. What is this, a play for a better deal?