THE WIDOW'S BILLIONAIRE

The red dress hung perfectly against my skin, the fabric whispering against my legs as I moved around our dining room. David had always loved this dress—the way it hugged my waist, the way the color brought out the warmth in my eyes. I'd worn it on our first anniversary, our tenth, our twentieth. Tonight, for our thirtieth, it felt like armor.

The table gleamed under the soft candlelight, set with our wedding china and the crystal glasses his mother had given us. I'd spent hours preparing his favorite meal: herb-crusted salmon, roasted vegetables, the chocolate soufflé that had taken me three attempts to perfect. The wine—a 1994 Bordeaux we'd been saving for a special occasion—breathed in its decanter.

Thirty years. I touched the pearl necklace at my throat, remembering the day he'd clasped it there on our wedding morning. "You're perfect, Margaret," he'd whispered then, his breath warm against my ear. "Absolutely perfect."

I'd been twenty-two, fresh out of college with a portfolio that had caught the attention of Hartwell & Associates in Manhattan. The offer letter had arrived the same week as our wedding invitations went out. Top-tier design firm, corner office overlooking Central Park, salary that would have made my father proud. But David had taken my hands in his, those dark eyes serious and pleading.

"I need you, Margaret. My practice is just starting, and I can't do this without you. Please."

So I'd folded the letter, tucked it away in my jewelry box where it yellowed with age, and became Mrs. David Chen instead of Margaret Walsh, interior designer.

The sound of his key in the lock made my pulse quicken. I smoothed the dress one more time, checked my lipstick in the hallway mirror. Thirty years of marriage, and I still wanted to look perfect for him.

"David?" I called, my voice bright with anticipation. "I'm in the dining room."

His footsteps were measured, deliberate. When he appeared in the doorway, I noticed immediately what was missing—no flowers, no small wrapped box, no bottle of champagne. His hands hung empty at his sides.

"You look beautiful," he said, but his voice carried no warmth. It was the tone he used with difficult clients, polite but distant.

Something cold settled in my stomach. "I made your favorite. The salmon you love, and I opened that Bordeaux we've been—"

"Margaret." He stepped into the room but didn't move toward me. "We need to talk."

The words hit me like a physical blow. In thirty years of marriage, nothing good had ever followed that phrase. I gripped the back of my chair, the wood solid and reassuring beneath my fingers.

"Can't it wait until after dinner? I've worked so hard—"

"No." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a manila envelope. "It can't wait."

My hands trembled as I took it from him. The weight of it, the official seal in the corner—I knew what it was before I opened it. Divorce papers. The words blurred