Hiding The Billionaire's Son After Divorce

Valeria's POV

Divorce papers.

I always knew it would come to this. It's been a slow, agonizing countdown since the day we got married-when he revealed to me that he only married me for revenge because he believed I was responsible for the accident that killed Isis, the woman he loved. He knew just how much I loved him. I had always loved him, but that didn't stop him from telling me just how much he hated me. He said this marriage was going to be my punishment; his own special brand of hell.

And then he threw me outside.

In the middle of the night. Still wearing my wedding gown, barefoot, soaked, crying my eyes out on the pavement while the sky wept with me. He walked right past me the next morning like I was a stranger, like I didn't exist, while I lay there shivering on the cold tiles outside the mansion-his mansion. I was nothing more than an unwanted stain on his perfect life.

Now, here we were, full circle. His lawyer had pushed the thick envelope across the mahogany dining table. The very table I had eaten alone at for three years.

I stared at the pages inside. My fingers trembled slightly, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry... or celebrate.

I had imagined this moment so many times. I had nightmares about it. I dreaded it, feared it, prayed it would never come. But now that it was here... there was something cathartic about it. Like ripping off a bandage from a festering wound. It hurt like hell-of course it did-but a small part of me felt... relieved. Maybe now the suffering would finally end.

After all, I had only ever been a wife on paper. There was nothing to mourn here. Nothing beautiful to look back on. Nothing real.

"Sign them. I can no longer stand to see your face or pretend like I don't want to strangle you with my bare hands every time I lay eyes on you."

His voice was ice, every word spat with disgust. He slammed his palm on the table, jerking me out of my thoughts.

I blinked up at him, swallowing hard. Luka stood across from me, tall and broad-shouldered in a crisp black shirt rolled at the sleeves, the veins in his forearms taut from tension. His stormy grey eyes were narrowed and his angular jaw was clenched tight.

He was a striking man-beautiful even-with dark, tousled hair that always looked effortlessly styled, a straight nose, and high cheekbones that gave him an almost regal profile. Women fawned over him. He was charming when he wanted to be. But the man standing before me now was nothing but bitter fury dressed in designer clothes.

Should I cry? Beg? Ask for a second chance?

No. What was the point when he had never given me a first chance?

We had been friends since we were kids. Grew up together. Laughed together. I had spent