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 baby.

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.

This wasn’t a careless mistake. This wasn’t a brief affair.

Whatever Clinton had been hiding had been going on for months, maybe even years. The realization sliced through her, sharp and merciless, and tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

“Why?” she whispered, lifting her face to his, desperate to find even a trace of the man she had loved for ten years.

She found nothing.

No guilt. No regret.

Just silence.

Then Clinton’s phone rang.

The sharp sound shattered the moment. He pulled it out immediately, his expression shifting the second he saw the name on the screen.

“Hey… Lydia,” he said softly, his voice suddenly warm, tender. A small smile touched his lips.

Monique’s chest tightened as she watched him change right in front of her.

“…I’m almost done here… What? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” His brow furrowed, concern clear in his tone. “I’ll be there soon. Put Dr. Hilda on the line.”

He paced slightly, listening intently.

“How far apart are the contractions?” A pause. “Three minutes?” He exhaled, nodding. “Hilda, please take care of them. I’m on my way. Please.”

Another pause.

“I love you too.”

The call ended.

Monique stood frozen, her heart cracking open. She noticed the nervous energy in him, the urgency, the worry. It burned. He had never looked like that when she was in labor. He had missed the births of both their children, always too busy, always unavailable.

Now look at him.

The irony was cruel.

He glanced at her impatiently. “Let me know when you’re ready to go through the process and finalize everything.”

The words were clinical.

Empty.

Monique let out a bitter laugh through her tears, the sound hollow and broken.

“If there’s anything you’re unhappy with or want added,” he continued calmly, “just tell me.”

Like they were negotiating a contract.

Like this wasn’t the death of a marriage.

Without another word, Clinton brushed past her and headed for the door.

Monique didn’t move.

Tears slid down her face as she stared blankly ahead. The luxurious hotel room, once meant to be their place of reconnection, now felt like a cruel joke. Every polished surface reflected her loss.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Final. Absolute.

Her legs gave out. She sank to her knees, the thick carpet doing nothing to soften the collapse of her world.

On the table, the envelope sat in plain sight, heavy with meaning, proof that everything she believed in was over.

In just minutes, her life had been rewritten.

The future she had imagined; growing old together, raising their children side by side had been torn away, leaving her standing at the edge of a life she never asked for and never saw coming.

꧁━꧂

The kitchen door opened, letting in a rush of cold autumn air. The chauffeur, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, stepped inside and shut the door quickly, rubbing his hands together.

“Ah, that’s better,” he muttered. “This cold… winter’s going to be harsh this year.”

Louise set a cup of steaming Malawian tea on the table and placed a plate of cinnamon rolls beside it. The smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen.

The chauffeur wrapped his hands around the cup, relief washing over his face as he took a careful sip. He reached for a roll just as soft laughter drifted in from the lounge.

“Sahara’s awake,” he said quietly. Then his expression changed. “How’s Monique?”

Louise let out a long, heavy sigh.

The night before had shaken the entire house. Monique was supposed to be away for a week with her husband, a trip meant to reconnect them. Instead, she had come back alone.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her face drained of life. For a terrifying moment, Louise had feared something had happened to Clinton.

But the truth was worse.

Clinton wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t missing. He was at the hospital, by another woman’s side, welcoming a son that wasn’t Monique’s.

Louise glanced toward the dining area.

Monique sat stiffly at the table, staring at the plate in front of her without touching it. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes dull, like someone who hadn’t slept at all.

“Poor girl,” Louise whispered, shaking her head.

The sharp ring of the doorbell cut through the quiet.

Louise wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the door. When she opened it, Clinton stood there, polished as ever.

Suit crisp. Hair neat. No sign that he’d torn his family apart.

“Mr. Beaumont,” Louise said carefully.

“Mmm,” he replied, already moving past her.

He stopped in the lounge, his eyes landing on Monique.

She didn’t look up. She nudged her food around with her fork as if he wasn’t even there.

Before he could say anything, Sahara’s laughter grew louder.

The little girl came running in, curls bouncing, her face lighting up the moment she saw him.

“Daddy!” she squealed, throwing herself into his arms.

“Hey, princess,” Clinton said softly, catching her. His voice warmed instantly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you more!” Sahara said, hugging him tightly.

Then she pulled back, her face suddenly serious. “Daddy… why didn’t you come home last night? Mommy was crying.”

The room froze.

Louise felt her heart drop.

Monique finally looked up, pain flashing across her face.

“Clinton!” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “How dare you walk in here like nothing’s happened? How dare you act like everything’s normal in front of our daughter?”

Clinton’s face hardened. “What did you expect me to do, Monique? Tell our five-year-old that Daddy’s leaving because he has another family now?”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Monique recoiled as if physically struck, fresh tears welling in her eyes. “Another family,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that what we are now? Your ‘other’ family?”

“I just came to pick up my clothes and some documentation,” he said, his demeanor cold and detached.

He moved to head upstairs, but Monique’s quiet voice stopped him in his tracks.

With her back to him, fists tightly clenched, she asked, “So this is it? Is this the end of us? Of our dreams? Our family?”

Clinton sighed exasperatedly. “Can we not do this?”

The dismissive tone in his voice was the last straw.

Monique whirled around to face him, her eyes burning with rage.

Through gritted teeth, she confronted him. “You have no right to take that tone with me. I’m the one who got cheated on here. I’m the one whose dreams and family got destroyed by your cheating. The least I deserve is answers!”

Clinton ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident on his face. “What do you want me to say? I fell out of love, okay? Love is not set in stone and blood.”

Monique laughed bitterly, her heart crashing with his self-righteous words. “And Sahara?” she pressed, thinking of their innocent daughter upstairs. “What about her?”

Clinton asked, his tone bordering on indifference.

Monique couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Did you ever think about her as you destroyed this family with your selfishness?”

Clinton’s jaw tightened. “I will explain it to her… she will understand someday.”

“Your selfishness truly knows no bounds,” Monique spat, disgust evident in her voice.

Neither of them spoke, but the tension was impossible to ignore.

Monique stood there, a mixture of fury and heartbreak etched on her face, while Clinton’s expression remained impassive, almost bored.

It was as if the man she had loved for a decade had been replaced by a stranger, someone who cared nothing for the pain he was causing.

Louise, who had been trying to give them privacy, couldn’t help but overhear.

Her heart ached for Monique and young Sahara. She wondered how a man who had once seemed so devoted to his family could change so drastically.

The sound of small footsteps on the stairs broke the silence, reminding them that Sahara was still in the house.

The little girl’s innocent voice called out, “Mommy? Daddy? Why are you shouting?”

Monique and Clinton looked at each other, panic flashing in their eyes as they realized their daughter might have heard part of their argument.

The reality of their situation, the difficult and painful process of separating their lives, hit them again.

Sometime later…

Seated on the sofa, clutching a white, fluffy teddy bear, Sahara’s bright blue eyes, filled with worry, darted towards the stairs.

Though young, she sensed something big was happening, leaving her nervous and unsettled.

She was accustomed to her father’s absences due to business trips, but this time felt different. The tense atmosphere that accompanied his return was new and frightening.

A short while later, Clinton descended the stairs with a suitcase.

Sahara jumped down from her seat, hope and fear warring in her young heart. “Daddy?”

“Honey,” Clinton acknowledged, his voice strained. “Are you leaving again? Didn’t you promise on your last trip that you wouldn’t be gone for long again?”

Her voice quivered with confusion and hurt.

From her position at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, Monique scoffed. She remembered that conversation all too well.

They had been happy then, or so she thought.

Now, with bitter hindsight, she realized Clinton had likely made that promise knowing his mistress was about to give birth.

Clinton shot Monique an irritated look before taking Sahara’s hand and leading her back to the sofa.

“Honey… there’s something daddy must tell you,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Daddy won’t be living here anymore.”

Sahara stared at him, bewildered.

Clinton continued, “Even though mommy and daddy won’t be staying together, I will always love you, okay?”

“Where are you going? I don’t want you to go… please stay,” Sahara pleaded, her voice small and frightened.

“Honey…” Clinton tried again, clearly uncomfortable.

“I don’t want you to go… I want you to stay with mommy,” Sahara insisted, her young mind unable to comprehend the complexity of the situation.

Desperate to change the subject, Clinton reached for his phone. “You can come visit anytime you want… Look,” he showed her a picture. “That’s your brother. You can visit and come play with him, okay?”

Sahara shook her head vehemently.

“Please don’t go…”

Just then, Clinton’s phone rang.

He answered it, a smile spreading across his face. “Lydia… yeah, I’m done. I’ll be there soon.”