My Billionaire Ex Husband Wants Me Back

Bianca's POV “Signora, are you certain you want to divorce Mr. Valdieri?” The lawyer asked gently, the way doctors asked if you understood a diagnosis. Rain traced slow lines down the window behind him, blurring Milan into grey watercolor. I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap. There was still a faint pink line across my palm where the pavement had torn it open. It would fade. Everything faded if you gave it enough time. That was what I had told myself for ten years. “I’m certain,” I said, my voice trembling only slightly. “I can’t keep being a wife without dignity beside a husband who doesn't love me.” Saying it aloud hurt more than I expected. I loved Raffaele Valdieri. I had loved him since I was fifteen, from the back row of a party where I wasn't welcome, watching him laugh in his football jersey while his eyes remained fixed on someone else. I had loved him quietly through university, through the years I worked as his secretary, and through three years of a marriage that existed only on paper and in the darkness of our bedroom. The lawyer's pen scratched across the documents. Two weeks ago, I had been happy. For one whole afternoon, I had been happy. I had received news that should have changed everything. Instead, it had shown me how little I truly mattered to my husband. I had left the doctor's office that afternoon with a smile on my face, convinced that I finally had something worth sharing with Raffaele. Something that might make him look at me differently. Something that might finally give our marriage a real future. I had driven back to the Valdieri estate with hope filling my chest. Maybe this changes everything, I thought. Maybe when he hears the news. Maybe he will finally see me. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. I should have known better. Hope had never once kept its promises to me. That evening, I stood outside Raffaele's study with the medical report tucked inside my handbag. The door was slightly open, and warm lamplight spilled into the hallway. I raised my hand to knock. “You've been married for three years, Raffaele,” Ludovico Soranzo said from inside, his voice lazy with whiskey. “Don't you think it's time you ended this?” I froze. My knuckles were an inch from the wooden door. “I will.” Raffaele's voice was flat. My heart sank. Ludovico laughed softly. “Good. Elettra is back in Italy now. I bet all your attention is on her.” Ice clinked against a glass. “How was last night? A whole night together, I’d guess.” My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag. Last night, I had crouched behind a parked car in an empty underground garage while a stranger's footsteps circled closer. My ankle had been screaming with pain. My palm was bleeding. I had pressed my phone so tightly against my ear that it left a mark. I had called Raffaele six times. He'll come. This time he'll come. I had believed it. An elderly security guard eventually found me. He shouted at the man and chased him away before helping me to my car. He stood in the rain until my hands stopped shaking enough for me to drive. Raffaele's reply had been waiting for me when I got home. One word. Busy. Humiliation was a living thing crawling up my throat. “So tell me,” Ludovico pressed, amusement clear in his voice. “Which is better? The wife or Elettra?” Raffaele didn't answer. “Look at me asking,” Ludovico laughed. “How could a contract wife ever compare to your first love?” I pressed both hands over my mouth so they would not hear me sob. This is only a deal. Raffaele had said those words three years ago while sliding the marriage contract across his dark mahogany desk. I hope you don't have any other ideas. But I had. I had signed that contract while secretly believing that time would make him see me differently. Three years later, that hope had proven to be nothing more than morning mist. I slowly pulled the medical report from my handbag. I looked at it for a moment before folding it back up. Whatever I had hoped to tell Raffaele no longer mattered. He had already made his choice. And now, I was making mine. “All right, Signora.” The lawyer's voice pulled me back to the present. He capped his pen and gathered the documents. “The divorce agreement will be sent to your email within five days.” Five days. I stared at him. Five days. Outside, the rain had stopped. I walked down the courthouse steps and took a deep breath. For the first time in years, the weight on my chest felt slightly lighter. “Five days,” I whispered. Five days, and I would leave Raffaele Valdieri behind. This time, I would not look back.