The Billionaire’s Regret: Ex-Husband Wants Me Back

OLIVIA’S POV “Olivia, the cab is waiting!” my best friend shouted from the door. I swallowed a sob. “Give me a sec.” I was standing over the sink, staring at a pregnancy test stick I had gotten earlier from the pharmacy. Fear squeezed my heart, and tears instantly filled my eyes as the second red line appeared. “Congratulations, Sweety! Wait—you’re crying!” Tessa did a double take. She was inside the bathroom now. She quickly hugged me from behind, probably unsure why such joyful news should bring tears to my eyes. But she didn’t know Mateo the way I did. “Tessa!” Drying my tears, I turned around to face her. “You know you should be on the lookout by the outer door. If anyone finds out we’re hiding out here and even planning to sneak out while customers are waiting to be attended to, we could get fired!” “It’s worth getting fired for,” Tessa replied nonchalantly. She was always the carefree one of the two of us. With a straighter face, she continued, “Hurry, or you’ll lose your cab. I told you I got that one on a discount—go. Go tell Mateo.” I sneaked out of Jules Bar and Grill, trying to feel optimistic. Maybe my fears were unfounded. Maybe Mateo would be happy about this pregnancy—even though he had explicitly told me never to get pregnant! “Number ten, Rolliures Street, please,” I said to the cab driver as I sank into the back seat. To distract myself, I started singing. Mateo Carvey was my husband of two years. After high school, I had taken up full-time work at Jules. Of course, I had ambitions of furthering my education, but two factors made that impossible. The first was that I didn’t have any money. The second was that I met Mateo and ended up using my entire savings to set up a hardware store for him. I remember thinking he looked too rich for our neighborhood when he’d walked in. He wasn’t wearing any fancy watch or designer clothing. His jeans even looked like they were ready to retire. Yet there was that refined air about him—it was there in his mannerisms and the way he talked. I’d later learn he was a mere janitor working for different companies. We started dating quickly, and three months later, we were married. I was still head over heels in love with him, yet sometimes I feared he was getting tired of me. I pushed those thoughts away. “Oh no!” I exclaimed suddenly, startling the driver. I hadn’t called Mateo to tell him I was coming. He always said he hated surprises. I quickly brought out my phone and texted him. *Where are you? I have something I need to tell you.* His text came back right away. *Good. Maybe now is the right time to tell you everything. I’m at the Surrello Complex, 241 Douglas Road.* I stared at my phone, feeling confused. I knew Douglas Road—it was where all the biggest corporations had their head offices. The Surrello was the largest business conglomerate in the state. What on earth was Mateo doing there? I quickly redirected the driver as my anxiety continued building. The moment I stepped into the Surrello Complex, I regretted not taking a moment to change into something a little more presentable. I was still dressed in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt. Thankfully, I had removed my waitress apron. In contrast to my appearance, the entire building looked like the stuff I saw only in movies and magazines. State-of-the-art architecture met elegant decoration—and the people looked like they could be stepping out of one of *GQ*’s magazines. “You! Stop! Cleaners are meant to clean only after everyone closes for the day,” a security guard snapped, stepping out suddenly—from nowhere—and grabbing my arm. I shook my head. “I’m not a cleaner. I’m here to see my husband.” “Look, Ms., if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call security,” the guard replied impatiently. I was about to give up—maybe Mateo was playing a prank—but I decided to try one last time. “I’m here to see my husband Mateo. He asked me to come here.” The man stopped dead for a while, then he grimaced. “All you young girls are so stupid and delusional. You think Mateo Surrello would get married to you?” He began dragging me forcefully out when his walkie-talkie chimed. He listened for a while, seemed shocked, then nodded. “Mr. Surrello has asked you to come. He’s on the top floor, the last office down the corridor to your left.” “But there’s a mistake somewhere. My husband is Mateo Carvey, not Mateo Surrello,” I started to say, but the man had already walked out.