Divorced By The Billionaire Who Still Owns Me

Elara’s Pov;

The email came in while I was standing in the kitchen, barefoot, holding a mug of coffee I never got to drink.

I noticed it because my phone vibrated twice instead of once. Adrian’s assistant usually sent messages that way. Short. Direct. Easy to ignore. But this time, it wasn’t his assistant.

It was his lawyer.

That alone made my stomach tighten.

I stood there staring at the sender’s name, waiting for my brain to catch up. Lawyers didn’t email unless something had already gone wrong. Adrian didn’t involve lawyers unless he’d already made a decision.

He liked things clean. Quiet. Controlled.

I opened the email.

There was no greeting.

No explanation.

Just an attachment.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

I blinked once, then again, like the word might change if I looked away long enough. My fingers hovered over the screen before I tapped the file open. The document loaded slowly, each second stretching thin.

Legal language filled the screen. Asset division. Confidentiality clauses. Timelines. Terms. My name appeared beside his as it had already been accepted, already processed.

It felt unreal.

I scrolled, faster now, my chest tightening with every page. I was looking for context. A reason. Something that sounded like a conversation had happened somewhere before this.

There was nothing.

My phone vibrated again before I could finish reading.

Please review and sign today so we can proceed accordingly.

Proceed.

That word sat heavily in my chest.

Proceed meant this wasn’t up for discussion.

Proceed meant Adrian had already moved on to the next step.

I set the phone down on the counter and leaned forward, gripping the edge. The coffee mug slipped from my hand and tipped over, dark liquid spreading across the counter and dripping onto the floor. I didn’t bother cleaning it up.

My stomach rolled suddenly, sharp and violent. I barely made it to the sink before gagging.

Nothing came up.

Just that hollow, sick feeling that made my hands shake and my knees weak.

“This can’t be happening,” I muttered, my voice sounding strange in the quiet apartment.

Last night replayed in fragments. I asked why he hadn’t come home. I asked why he never talked to me anymore. Him standing there, jacket still on, phone in his hand, already halfway gone.

“I can’t do this right now,” he’d said.

Then he walked out.

That wasn’t new. Adrian walked away from discomfort. From emotion. From anything that couldn’t be solved with a signature or a meeting.

But divorce?

Divorce didn’t fit the pattern.

I rinsed my mouth, grabbed my bag, and left the apartment without locking the door properly. I didn’t stop to think. Thinking would slow me down, and if I slowed down, I might fall apart.

I drove straight to his office.

Traffic felt unreal, like I was moving through it without fully being present. Red lights blurred past. Horns sounded distant. My phone buzzed again, but I didn’t look at it.

Security let me into the building without question.