My Ex-Husband's Regret, My New Beginning

For ten years, I poured my family's fortune and my entire life into building my husband, Corbin, into an architectural star. I was the perfect wife, the silent partner behind his success.

Then, on our anniversary, he brought his "muse," Kallie, and publicly humiliated me for her.

He let her stain my Porsche, then brought her to our home. I found her in my bedroom, wearing my clothes, after she'd broken our wedding photo. He screamed at me, demanding I apologize to her.

He called me materialistic and cruel, the very man whose lavish life I had single-handedly funded. But the final straw wasn't even finding them in bed together.

It was when his mistress cornered me, claiming she was pregnant to force me to let him go.

I just smiled, signed the divorce papers, and booked a one-way ticket to Europe. It was time to reclaim the life he stole.

Chapter 1

My husband, Corbin, had a new woman. Not just a new woman, but the new woman. The one he called his muse, his artistic equal, the one who understood his "authentic struggle." And there she was, standing next to him, her hand casually resting on his arm, as if she belonged there.

"Adeline," Corbin said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth when he addressed me. "This is Kallie. Kallie Vazquez."

He emphasized her last name. He always did that with artists he admired. He wanted me to call her Kallie. As if we were friends.

My eyes swept over her. I knew who Kallie Vazquez was. The "pure" conceptual artist from Brooklyn. The one funded by the trust I'd set up, the one whose work Corbin obsessed over. The one who had become the third person in our marriage without ever stepping foot in our home, until now.

She was petite, with a deliberately disheveled look. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely, framing a face that was almost aggressively natural. No heavy makeup, no obvious designer clothes. She wore oversized paint-splattered overalls, a stark contrast to my tailored silk dress. She was the picture of an artist untouched by the world, a canvas of authenticity.

"It's so lovely to finally meet you, Adeline," Kallie said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. She offered a small, hesitant smile. It was perfectly played, a blend of reverence and shyness.

"Kallie," I replied, my voice steady. I didn't return her smile, just a slight nod. My composure felt like a fragile shield.

We were leaving the gallery opening, one of many I'd funded for Corbin's firm. Our Porsche, the one I'd bought him, was waiting. The driver held the door open.

I moved towards the passenger side, my usual spot. It was my car. My seat.

Kallie stepped forward, a beat too fast, and reached for the passenger door. Her fingers brushed the handle.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she murmured, pulling her hand back as if burned. Her eyes darted to Corbin, then back to me, wide and