Never Again, My Ex-Husband

​Torrential rain battered the floor-to-ceiling windows on the fortieth floor of the Knight Group building, casting a blurred reflection of the woman standing rigid in the center of the grand office. ​Clara adjusted her emerald green evening gown—a dress she had bought specifically to celebrate their third wedding anniversary. Yet on the cold mahogany desk before her, there were no candles or anniversary cake. There was only a thick document stamped with bold letters: DIVORCE AGREEMENT. ​"You didn't have to go this far, Clara," Ethan’s deep baritone cut through the heavy silence. He stood near the window, his back facing her, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored trousers. He appeared utterly composed, as if this divorce were nothing more than a routine business transaction. ​Clara offered a faint, bitter smile—a fragile mask hiding the searing pain in her chest. ​"Three years, Ethan," Clara whispered, her voice trembling despite her desperate attempt to stay calm. "For three long years, I tried to warm a heart made of ice. I learned to cook your favorite meals, stayed up waiting for you every single night until dawn, and endured the subtle scorns of your family, who looked down on me as a nobody." ​Ethan turned around. His sharp, dark eyes met hers without a trace of emotion. "We agreed on this from the start. This marriage was purely a business arrangement. Don't drag personal feelings into it." ​Personal feelings. ​Those words struck Clara like a sledgehammer to the chest. So all her sacrifices, her patience, and her quiet devotion over a thousand days meant nothing more than annoying "personal feelings"? ​"You're right," Clara nodded slowly. She picked up the sleek black fountain pen lying on the desk. "I was a fool for believing a block of ice could melt if I held it long enough." ​Without a moment’s hesitation, she signed her name on the final page. The black ink sealed their fate. ​Clink. ​Clara slipped off the diamond ring on her left ring finger—the ring Ethan had placed there three years ago without a shred of warmth. She set it gently on top of the divorce papers. ​"Clara..." Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly. A flicker of something unreadable flashed in his eyes as he watched her take off the ring—a rare reaction from a man famously incapable of emotion. ​"Starting today, I'm giving you back your freedom, Ethan Knight," Clara said, looking straight into his eyes. There was no longer any warmth or pleading left in her gaze—only a cold, hollow emptiness. "And I am taking back my life." ​She turned around and walked toward the exit. Each step echoed firmly against the marble floor, marking the end of her time as the pitiful, dutiful wife and the beginning of her rebirth. ​"You'll regret walking out that door without taking a single dime of my wealth," Ethan called out from behind, his voice tightening. ​Clara paused at the threshold, without looking back. ​"I’d rather starve on the streets than die a slow death by your side. Never again, Ethan." ​The heavy oak door shut with a decisive thud, leaving Ethan alone in an office that suddenly felt far colder and emptier than before.