The Billionaire's Greatest Loss: Ex Wife Please Come Back

(Serena's POV)

The first time I realized I was invisible was on my wedding night.

Not when Damian Blackwood whispered promises against my skin, not when the press called me the luckiest woman in New York City, and certainly not when his grandmother, Eleanor Blackwood, handed me a premarital agreement that was thicker than a Bible.

No.

It was when he left me alone in our penthouse suite, still in my wedding dress, to take a call from his mistress.

Three years later, nothing had changed.

The diamonds around my neck felt like a noose as I stood at the edge of the Blackwood Charity Gala, my fingers tracing the cold, perfect stones of the choker Damien had given me, another apology wrapped in luxury. It was a gift from him last week after missing our anniversary, again. The weight of it pressed against my throat, a constant reminder that I was owned.

Around me, the grand ballroom of the Blackwood Estate glittered like a jewel box, its vaulted ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers that cast fractured light across the marble floors. The walls were lined with gilded mirrors, reflecting the elite of New York society as they moved in a carefully choreographed dance of power and deception. Ice sculptures melted slowly beside towers of champagne flutes, their delicate shapes blurring at the edges.

The women were draped in couture gowns that cost more than most people's yearly salaries, silks from Paris, lace from Venice, beads hand-sewn by artisans in Mumbai. Their jewels sparkled like frozen stars.

The men were no less calculated in their displays, their tailored tuxedos sharp enough to draw blood, their watches gleaming under the lights.

And yet, beneath the facade of luxury and refinement, every person in the room was aware of the scandalous secret that I was the wife nobody acknowledged, the invisible partner hidden in the shadows of my husband's illustrious life.

Then she walked in.

Natalia Orlova.

The Russian ballet dancer who became an influencer, the woman whose Instagram Damien had been liking at three in the morning while I lay awake beside him.

She moved like smoke in a silver gown that seemed painted onto her body, the fabric slit to the thigh to reveal legs that had graced the stages of the Bolshoi. The dress shimmered with thousands of hand-sewn crystals, catching the light with every step, as if she carried her own spotlight. Her platinum hair cascaded down her back in a sheet of ice, perfectly straight, perfectly untouchable. Her lips were stained the color of crushed rubies, and her eyes were cold, and calculating

The crowd parted for her like the Red Sea. Cameras flashed, their bursts of light catching the disdain in her smirk as she turned her gaze toward me.

Oh, this was deliberate. I swallowed.

"Serena, darling!" Victoria Blackwood, Damien's viper of a sister, appeared beside me, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She wore an emerald-green gown that matched the venom in her eyes,