Divorced and Betrayed: The Billionaire's Regret

I never thought I'd be the kind of woman who checks her husband's phone. You know, the paranoid type, scrolling through messages in the dead of night while he snores beside her. But there I was, in our sprawling penthouse overlooking the glittering skyline of New York, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. The room was dimly lit by the glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors. Ethan had come home late again, smelling faintly of bourbon and something sweeter-perfume, maybe? He'd kissed my forehead absently before collapsing into bed, his suit jacket tossed carelessly over the armchair.

My name is Elena Voss-well, Elena Harrington now, thanks to the ring on my finger that's starting to feel more like a shackle. I married Ethan three years ago in a whirlwind romance that felt like something out of a fairy tale. He was the charming billionaire CEO of Harrington Enterprises, the kind of man who turned heads with his sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, and that effortless confidence that came from old money and new power. I was just a graphic designer from a modest family, scraping by in Brooklyn, when we met at a charity gala. He swept me off my feet with private jets to Paris and diamond necklaces that cost more than my annual salary. "You're my everything," he'd whisper, and I'd believe him because I wanted to.

But lately, things had changed. The late nights at the office, the canceled dinners, the way his eyes would dart away when I asked about his day. And then there was the nausea I'd been fighting for weeks, the secret I hadn't shared yet because I wanted it to be perfect. I was pregnant. Twins, the doctor had said during my discreet appointment that morning. I'd imagined telling him over a romantic dinner, watching his face light up. Instead, here I was, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his messages.

The screen unlocked easily-no passcode, because why would he need one? We trusted each other. Or so I thought. The first thread that caught my eye was from "S. Marketing." Odd, since our company's marketing head was a guy named Steve. I clicked it anyway.

Can't wait for tonight. Miss you already. Wear that red dress? - S

My stomach twisted. Ethan's reply: You know I will. Room 1502, usual spot.

Scroll up. Photos. Intimate ones. A woman with long auburn hair, laughing in a selfie with him. Serena. My best friend since college. The one who'd introduced us, actually. She'd been at our wedding, toasting to our eternal love.

I dropped the phone like it was on fire, my hands shaking. The room spun. How long? Why? I stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before I retched. The cold porcelain grounded me as tears streamed down my face. Betrayed. By both of them. The man I loved and the woman I trusted