Bittersweet Billionaire

One

Tears streamed down my face before I could stop them, the sting of the slap still fresh as I stared at my husband. The rage carved into his features sent a jolt of fear through me—fear of what he might do next. We’d argued before, many times, but over the past year, these confrontations had grown more frequent… and more violent. I had dared to question his late nights, and for that, I was met with a storm of verbal and physical abuse that made me wish I could take the words back.

“Please, Sammual, I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have questioned you. Just… don’t wake Kaelan.” My voice shook, pleading softly.

His face darkened further. I shrank back instinctively, trembling under his glare.

“Maybe you should learn to shut your fat mouth, woman,” he growled.

I clenched my aching jaw and dropped my gaze, trying to make myself as small as possible. The fury radiating off him was enough to keep me frozen in place. After a tense silence, he turned and walked away without another word. I stayed where I was, stiff and silent, holding my breath, unsure if he would return. A few minutes later, I heard the door to his study slam shut.

Only then did I let out the breath I’d been holding, pressing a hand to my mouth to stifle the sob threatening to escape. Once I’d composed myself, I tiptoed to our five-year-old son’s room and peeked inside. Kaelan was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. A small smile tugged at my lips as he mumbled something in his sleep. Even that slight movement made the split on my lip throb painfully.

Happy family, happy life. Happy family, happy life, I repeated silently, like a prayer. I wanted so badly to believe it. Willed it to be true. I had given Sammual a son. I had devoted myself entirely to being the loving, obedient wife. I thought if I just gave enough—sacrificed enough—he would eventually love me back.

Our marriage had been arranged by our families. As the eldest daughter, it was my duty to unite our bloodlines. I’d been young and foolish, believing in fairy tales and happy endings.

But I was never the pretty one.

Compared to my younger sister, I was plain and plump, with unruly dark hair. Cheyanne, with her golden curls, blue eyes, and delicate frame, looked like she’d stepped out of a dream. She drew the gaze of every man around her—including Sammual.

He never missed a chance to compare us. He’d sneer at my weight, my looks, always asking why I couldn’t be more like her—slimmer, softer, prettier. Why had I inherited all the worst traits from our family?

Things only got worse after I gave birth to Kaelan. The postpartum depression made it hard to eat right, or at all. My body changed, my weight increased, and with it, Sammual’s contempt.

Eventually, I became the punchline at every party we attended together. He made jokes about me, laughed at my expense, always drawing comparisons to the other women in the room. I forced myself to laugh along, pretending they were harmless inside jokes—but each one carved a deeper wound.

I drifted back to our bedroom, though most nights Sammual slept on the couch in his study. He only came to bed when he was drunk and wanted something. Even that had become rare. And of course, I never said no.

Happy family, happy life, remember?

“Happy family, happy life. Happy family, happy life,” I whispered through the tears as I lay down, my cheek burning and ribs aching from the bruises already forming. I cried quietly, uncontrollably, until exhaustion pulled me under and I sank into a restless, dark sleep.

~*~

The next morning, I sat at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee as the sun rose over the overly manicured garden beyond the wide window. Pale golden light crept across the trimmed hedges and perfect rows of flowers—beauty crafted to impress, not to comfort. My mind was a whirlwind, tumbling through every possibility, every outcome, as I tried to piece together my next move.

I had woken early, well before Sammual or Kaelan, the house still draped in that quiet grey hush just before dawn. The silence had felt heavy as I made my way to Sammual’s study. The moment I opened the door, the sharp stench of alcohol assaulted my nose. His loud, uneven snores echoed from the couch—passed out cold.

That’s when I saw it.

His phone lay on the floor, where it must’ve slipped from his hand. I moved carefully, silently, retrieving it and retreating to the desk. My fingers trembled as I turned it on. The little unlock chime pinged, far too loud in the silence, and I nearly flinched. But the password was laughably simple—his usual numbers, the same for everything. I almost snorted. Wealthy, yes. Clever? Hardly.

What I found made my stomach lurch.

At the top of his messages was a name I knew far too well, punctuated by hearts… and a ring emoji. My pulse roared in my ears as I opened the thread, eyes racing over each message. Vulgar words. Crude compliments. Shameless flirtation. The things he’d said to her—last night—made bile rise in my throat.

But what broke me wasn’t the filth. It was the confession.

I hate her. Marrying her was the worst mistake I ever made.

Should’ve been you.

If I’d married you Cheyanne, at least I’d be proud to have you on my arm.

My breath hitched. My vision blurred with hot tears. I slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle the sob rising in my chest.

Cheyanne.

My sister.

I locked the screen and set the phone exactly where I’d found it, retreating from the study quieter than a shadow. My heart pounded. My hands were shaking. I felt like the floor might give way beneath me.

I had never considered divorce—not seriously. My parents had forbidden it. They reminded me often that leaving Sammual meant forfeiting any entitlements from the Welsh family. And to them, money always outweighed love.

But this… this betrayal... it changed everything.

If I stayed, I was saying this was acceptable. That I was willing to live in the ruins of a lie. At some point, I had to choose myself. Even if it meant doing it alone.

Upstairs, I heard Sammual stirring. Heavy footsteps echoed above, then a loud bang as our bedroom door slammed open. He grumbled—clearly noticing the empty bed—then a moment later, the shower hissed to life.

Only then did I breathe again.

I needed to prepare.

Leaving meant forfeiting every cent tied to my husband’s family—and my own. There would be no safety net, no inheritance. My parents would disown me the moment I stopped being useful to them. I was under no illusions about that. But there were still a few distant relatives, living in cities far enough away, who might take me in. They couldn’t stand my parents—or Sammual—and they knew the kind of pain I endured behind closed doors.

If it had been up to Grandma, she would’ve kicked the lot of them into next week. That woman had a mean streak you did not want to cross.

Upstairs, the shower shut off. I listened to the creak of the floorboards as Sammual moved around the bedroom, likely checking the bed for me, before heading downstairs. I’d already made his lunch, prepped his coffee. Keeping him oblivious to what I had discovered was essential—my survival depended on it.

Something in my gut told me that if he sensed what I was planning, I wouldn’t make it out alive.

Divorcing a man like Sammual wasn’t just a scandal—it was a declaration of war. The media would descend like vultures, swarming the story with gleeful bloodlust. I could hear the headlines already:

The country’s fourth wealthiest man blindsided by divorce. Wife to receive nothing after forfeiting marital assets—raises questions about what really happens behind closed doors…

The thought sent a spike of adrenaline through my chest. My hands tightened around the coffee mug just as Sammual entered the kitchen. His expression was unreadable, a blank mask as his eyes met mine from across the counter. I forced a small, placid smile and nodded toward the fridge.

“I made your lunch, dear. And your coffee’s ready,” I said softly.

His eyes flicked from me to the fridge, then down to the travel mug waiting in front of him. There was a moment of pause, a brief narrowing of his eyes.

“I thought… after my discourteous questions last night, I should apologize the best way I can,” I added, voice trembling just enough to sound believable.

His expression shifted—softening, just slightly. He believed the act. He believed I was submitting, even after everything he had done to me the night before.

Was I really that much of a pushover? The thought cut through me like a knife. I clenched my jaw to keep from reacting.

“I have a big proposal tonight at the company,” he mumbled. “If I’m not home by dinner, don’t wait up.”

He grabbed his lunch and coffee, already halfway to the door.

“Have a great day, dear,” I said.

He didn’t even glance back.

My heart sank. I knew exactly what that meant. He wasn’t coming home—not to me. He was going to her. To Cheyanne. My sister.

I ground my teeth in fury, despair tightening in my throat. All those years—years spent trying to earn his love, to be what he wanted—meant nothing. I had given him everything. My time, my body, my loyalty. And all he ever wanted was a perfect, plastic doll.

I swallowed the sob rising in my throat and blinked away the tears. Then, with a trembling hand, I downed the last of my coffee.

It was time to plan my escape.