Claimed By the Billionaire Ex

Prologue

Aurora's POV

I can't remember the last time Jace looked at me the way he looked at her smiling, unguarded, caught off guard by the camera flash as she clung to his arm beneath the ballroom's glittering lights. The world seemed to revolve around them, and as I stared at my phone's screen in the empty living room, my own world threatened to stop spinning altogether.

The comments beneath the photo gutted me.

'@ire_goal_Childhood sweethearts. They look perfect together. He deserves someone who stands beside him. I guess that's why he's never seen with his wife.'

'Pretty sure that was a lie. No one has ever seen him with the supposed wife @ire_goal_'

I could understand why they would say things like this because truthfully, I was never seen with him. Jace never even acknowledged me in public. I was as good as fake. Only a handful of people knew he was even married to me and I was very much real.

I scroll back up to the freeze-frame of her laughter, her arm slipped through his like a secret that belonged only to them. His hand rests on her back with the tenderness I've craved for years. Everything she was receiving right now was something I've craved for years to belong to me.

My hands shake from anger, fear? I don't even know. Maybe disappointment but my resolve doesn't falter as I find the number in my contacts.

"Mr. Lewis? I need you to draw up divorce papers. Tonight."

There's a dull ache in my chest, not just anger but something far more tired. Even as I take my decision, I know I'm still hopelessly in love with the man sleeping on magazine covers. The one who is always kind to every other woman but never me.

I moved my feet to the kitchen, pulling myself together as best I can before he comes home. At least what used to be my home. He comes home late, the scent of expensive cologne and champagne trailing after him. I do what I always do, make dinner, ask how his day went, and pretend my world hasn't shattered.

He barely looks at me, worn down by some unseen battle. His tie half-undone and shirt unbuttoned at the throat, he's every inch the man they see in the magazines: cold, self-assured, untouchable. I search his face for warmth, for anything that says I matter. He gives me silence instead; the only thing he gives is what happens when the lights are off and we're alone in bed.

When he finally speaks, it's not to ask about my day, but to ask for me. His hand finds mine as we pass in the hallway, pulling me gently but firmly toward the bedroom. I don't protest, I never have. I let him take, because this is the only part of him he'll give.

We move to the bedroom in silence, shed our clothes in ritual, not in passion. My skin burns beneath his