Chapter 1: Divorce

The opulent room shimmered with anticipation, its white-and-gold décor reflecting Monique’s bright mood.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, glinting off gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers. The plush carpet softened her pacing as she moved from one elegant piece of furniture to the next, unable to stay still.

Monique herself looked radiant. Her simple sundress did nothing to hide her natural grace or quiet beauty. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a face that rarely needed makeup. Her blue eyes-usually calm and steady-sparkled with excitement.

Clinton was coming home.

The joy rushing through her felt almost overwhelming. Three months. Three long months since she had last seen him. Three months of late-night calls, stolen moments on video chats, and falling asleep clutching her phone.

His business trip had taken him from Central Asia to Greece, and though she had been proud of his success, his absence had left an ache she couldn’t shake.

She missed everything-his presence, the way he filled a room, the warmth of his hand at her lower back, the sound of his laughter. The thought of finally seeing him again made her heart race like it had when they first fell in love.

Determined to make the reunion perfect, Monique threw herself into preparations. She checked her phone again, rereading Clinton’s message for what felt like the hundredth time.

Smiling, she called out, “Louise!”

The door opened, and Louise, a plump elderly woman stepped inside. Her kind eyes immediately softened at the sight of Monique’s glowing face.

“Good news?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“My baby is coming home,” Monique said, barely able to contain her excitement.

Louise smiled, then hesitated. “For real this time?”

Monique nodded. “He’s already in the country.”

Relief washed over Louise’s face. “Oh, thank goodness. What time will he be home? I should start dinner, maybe Andriettian food? Nothing beats a home-cooked meal.”

“There’s no need,” Monique said gently, reaching for her handbag. “Can you watch Sahara for me? I’m going to the spa. And book me a week at the Courtyard.”

Louise raised an eyebrow at the mention of the city’s most exclusive hotel but said nothing as Monique hurried out. She sighed fondly once the door closed.

Young love-it was beautiful, even when it worried her.

The spa did little to calm Monique’s nerves. By evening, she stood inside the presidential suite at the Courtyard, heart racing. She faced the mirror and finally slowed her breathing.

She looked stunning. Her hair fell in soft waves, her makeup subtle and flawless. The sheer lingerie hugged her curves just right.

“It was worth it,” she murmured.

When the doorbell rang, her pulse jumped. She opened the door eagerly-then froze.

Clinton stood there, impossibly familiar and yet suddenly distant. His tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders, crisp and immaculate, as if he hadn’t just stayed away for three months.

 His cologne-that cologne-hit her instantly, stirring memories she wasn’t ready to confront. For a heartbeat, she forgot everything else.

Ten years. Ten years, and he still had the power to unravel her with a single look.

“Babe…” she started, already stepping toward him, her arms lifting instinctively.

But he didn’t move.

He didn’t smile.

 He didn’t reach for her.

The warmth she expected never came.

Instead, Clinton’s eyes flicked over her body-lingerie, bare skin, anticipation-and something unreadable hardened in his gaze. His jaw tightened. His lips pressed into a thin line.

“Maybe you should cover up,” he said, his voice oddly stiff, formal… wrong.

The words landed like a slap.

Monique froze, her arms dropping back to her sides. Heat rushed to her face, followed by a sharp, biting cold that crawled down her spine.

Slowly, she wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how exposed she was-not just physically, but emotionally.

“I… I don’t understand,” she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “I thought you’d be happy to see me. I thought… after everything… after three months…”

Clinton stepped inside and closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing far too loudly in the massive suite. But even as he entered, he kept his distance.

 The space between them felt deliberate. Calculated.

“Monique,” he said heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “We need to talk.”

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head. “No, don’t say that. Don’t say it like that.” She laughed weakly, desperately. “Talk about what? Clinton, what’s going on?”

He avoided her eyes, pacing once, then stopping beside the table. His movements were tense, restless-nothing like the man who used to pull her into his arms the moment he walked through a door.

Then she saw it. An envelope. White. Thick. Official.

Her chest tightened painfully.

“What’s that?” she asked, already knowing she didn’t want the answer.

Clinton exhaled slowly, as if bracing himself. “Divorce papers.”

The room tilted. Monique swayed slightly, her hand flying to the back of the chair to steady herself. Her ears rang, her lungs refusing to cooperate.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“I’ve been seeing someone else,” he continued, his voice flat, detached, like he was reciting a report instead of detonating her life.

Her head shook on its own. “No… no, that’s not—” She laughed again, sharp and hysterical this time. “You’re joking. This is a joke.”

“I’m sorry,” he added, almost absently.

Sorry. The word burned.

“When… who… how long…?” The questions tumbled out of her mouth, fractured, desperate, her chest aching with every breath.

Clinton’s eyes finally met hers-and there was no remorse there. No hesitation.

“Does it matter?”

Her nails dug into her palms.

“Who?” she demanded, her voice cracking under the weight of it.

“Lydia,” he replied. “She’s pregnant… it’s a boy… she’s due anytime.”

The world stopped. A sob tore from Monique’s chest before she could stop it. A baby.

Not a mistake. Not a fling. A child.

This wasn’t sudden. This wasn’t recent. This had been growing-hidden-while she waited, trusted, believed.

She stared at him through blurred vision, her heart shattering piece by piece, every memory suddenly poisoned.

In that moment, surrounded by luxury that now felt empty, Monique understood.

This wasn’t a reunion.

It was an ending.

She hadn’t been waiting for Clinton to come back.

She had been waiting for him to leave.