His Billionaire Ex-Wife

"Yesha, hurry up! You're going to be late for class," called her mom outside her room. from the living room. "You know how important punctuality is." "Yes, Mom, I'm almost ready," Yesha replied, hastily pulling on her uniform and grabbing her bag. She glanced at the clock and realized she only had a few minutes left. Rushing to tie her hair into a neat ponytail, she thought about her parents—Diego Montereal, a known businessman, and Dorothy Prime Montereal, the brilliant lawyer. Their images flashed in her mind, captured in the glossy pages of magazines and newspapers, always looking so poised and confident. Today, she would have to walk in their footsteps, even if it meant being a few minutes late. Yesha's parents epitomized a loving couple willing to work together to achieve their ambitious goals. They were successful, and a large portion of the Philippine population expected Yesha to follow in their footsteps and become a successful woman herself. She felt no obligation to meet their expectations. She often heard from friends, neighbors, classmates, and passersby about how she should strive to be as successful as her parents, as her older siblings who had already graduated and secured jobs had done. What a nuisance! She simply shrugged off these expectations. Why should she care about what everyone else wanted and expected from her? She had her own views and aspirations in life. She was tired of people dictating what she should do with her life. That's why she was studying – to secure a bright future for herself. But she understood all of that. Even her parents had been disappointed in her at times. Her grades suffered because she occasionally skipped classes. She also didn't comply with her parents' "do this" and "don't do that" expectations. Why did everyone feel entitled to tell her what to do with her life? She applied light makeup to her face. She was beautiful, with a Western beauty and complexion. Yesha didn't need contact lenses because she already had beautiful golden-brown eyes. She also applied red lipstick to her perfectly thin lips. Honestly, her professor had warned her multiple times not to wear overly red lipstick. He said she was going to school, not a beauty contest. She never listened to him. Why should she listen to her old professor who often glanced at her cleavage? She hated being told what to do. Yesha had the freedom to wear what she wanted, dress the way she wanted, and embrace her style, and no one could say "that's not good for you" because she followed her own rules, not anyone else's. Yesha was neither good nor bad. She was a kind young lady, treating others kindly if they treated her the same. Her attitude depended on how others treated her. If they were fake, she would be fake too. If they fooled around, she wouldn't let herself be fooled and might even play the trickster herself. She didn't have a boyfriend. Yesha, the daughter of a wealthy family, didn't have a partner. She had never been in a relationship before. She didn't know why, but none of the men who courted her were her type. She was looking for someone who met her expectations. Possessive, hot, and with an artistic vibe, but humble like a gentle tiger. That was her description of the man she wanted to be with. If her suitor didn't meet her description, he was automatically rejected. She noticed that fewer men were bold enough to confess their feelings for her. Yesha was an accounting student at a prestigious university in Manila. It was her final year in college, and she needed to study hard to meet everyone's damn expectations for her. Graduating would be enough. Then she could finally enjoy her life freely. Friday nights at the club, drinking, dancing, hanging out with friends, traveling to different parts of the world, meeting new friends with similar tastes, and living life according to her own will. That's all she wanted in her entire life. "Yesha? Hija?" her mom shouted from outside, interrupting her self-reflection in the large mirror. Damn, Yesha immediately sprayed herself with expensive perfume. "I'm coming, Mom," she replied. She hurriedly left her room to meet her mother's stern face. "What time is it now? Yesha, this is your last semester. You're a graduating student. God, what if you can't pass Mr. Vaughn's subject?" she scolded, hands on her hips. That was the sermon she received as soon as she left her room. Yesha hated her old professor because he always called her mom to report her frequent absences from his class. "Don't play around, Yesha. It's better if you just get married," her mother continued. Yesha smiled. If only there was a man who fit her set description. There might be a point to what she said, and it seemed like it might be time for her to get married. She didn't want to become an old maid. Her sister was married with children, as was her brother. She was the only single one left in the house. Well, Yesha was patiently waiting for her knight in shining armor, the love of her life. "You're still smiling there. Jesus, this kid," her mom remarked. "I'm going to be late, Mom. Can we skip the sermon for now?" she joked. "You're always late, especially for Mr. Vaughn's class. He'll call again later." "Maybe Mr. Vaughn has a crush on you, mom," she jokingly concluded. "Jesus, Yesha. I'll tell your dad, and he'll deal with you." She shrugged. "I'm leaving now, Mom," she said, kissing her mom's cheek before leaving their mansion. She drove her own car. She didn't want to rely on their family driver. She enjoyed driving while listening to music on the stereo, singing along to the songs. When Yesha turned the car left at the university's main gate, she accidentally hit a man. She stopped the car, her heart racing. She could hear her own heartbeat. She hadn't hit the man very hard, but she still worried. Who was he, and why wasn't he looking where he was going? She wanted to curse at him but realized it was her fault. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, channeling her anger and fear into it. She got out of the car to check on the guy. Why was he still lying there? What if he had a heart condition and this incident caused it to worsen? Those were Yesha's thoughts as she cautiously approached. She saw the man grimace in pain. His left leg hurt. Was it fractured? Or just scraped? "Help me stand up," the man pleaded, giving her a possessive look. He was so manly. The freshly shaved mustache on his upper lip added to his hotness and sexiness. He was dishy, with a mohawk and scythe-shaped eyebrows. Perfect. His eyes sparkled with youthful enthusiasm and energy. Handsome in an understated way. Hot, perfect, sexy, with a good body. He was perfect. She didn't hesitate to help him. Especially since she was the one who hit him. She offered him a hand to stand up. She couldn't help but be drawn to his scent. It was different, lovable, and romantic. He smelled so manly, like s*x and a bed of roses. She felt like she wanted to devour his entire body. "Thanks," he said. His voice was part of his charm. "I'm sorry," she apologized.