The CEO Chasing his EX-Wife.

Chapter1 I wore that red dress one last time, for him. Not to please him, not to celebrate some bullshit fifth anniversary. I just wanted to see if, when a woman presents herself like a carefully crafted painting, he could still recognize who she was—not the housekeeper, not the firefighter, not the one who always cleaned up his messes. But Elena. The Elena who once made him say, eyes blazing with pride in front of investors, "This is my wife, and my best partner." Dusk was settling, but the lights in the living room were already on, casting a warm glow and hinting at the faint scent of sandalwood. I stood in the hallway, my fingers tracing the cool diamonds of the earrings he’d given me last year, saying they “matched the intensity in your boardroom gaze.” In the mirror, I carefully applied lipstick—a bold crimson that perfectly complemented the elegant updo and the curve of my exposed neck. He always liked kissing my neck. The irony was almost unbearable. My phone buzzed. A message from Lena: “Here? Any word from him?” I replied: “Just arrived. Car’s parked outside. Didn’t want to rush in.” Her immediate reply: “Don’t leave yourself any wiggle room. Remember, this isn’t a date, it’s a reckoning.” I smiled, slipping my phone into my bag. She was right. I wasn’t here for dinner, I was here for a settlement. The villa door was ajar. That was strange—he always had the housekeeper guarding it, like it was Fort Knox. But today, it was unnervingly quiet. The only sound was the sharp click of my heels on the marble floor, a chilling rhythm. “Nicholas?” I called out, my voice low but carrying. No answer. Candles flickered on the dining table, two place settings, a decanter of red wine, and a steak that was probably growing cold. The menu was my choice: Italian truffle risotto, his favorite. I checked the time: 7:12 PM. He was never late, especially for these “important occasions.” I removed my coat, draped it over the back of a chair, and headed upstairs. The study door was closed, but a warm light seeped from under the crack. I heard a woman's laughter—short, forced, laced with a hint of coquettishness. Then, his voice, low and hushed: “Don’t be silly…she’ll be back any minute.” My stomach dropped, but I didn’t hesitate. I opened the door. They were embracing, right there at my desk. His hand was buried in her hair, her dress hiked up to her thigh, one of her heels lying discarded on the carpet. Sophia. The “Oriental Venus,” a recent magazine cover girl, back from her runway shows. She turned, saw me, froze for a moment, then slowly pulled away, still smiling, as if watching some insignificant misunderstanding unfold. I stood there, motionless, silent. “Elena…” Nicholas released her, smoothing his tie, his voice trembling. “You…how come you’re so early?” “Early?” I looked at him, my tone flat, but sharp. “Seven twelve, and you call that early?” He didn’t respond. Sophia had already retrieved her shoe, straightened her dress, her movements graceful, almost theatrical. She glanced at me, her eyes devoid of guilt, only a condescending assessment, a silent declaration: No matter how expensively you dress, you’re just a housewife. “This is Sophia,” Nicholas tried to explain. “You’ve met her, in magazines…” “I know who she is,” I interrupted. “And I know about your little university fling. She was your first love, your mother disapproved, forced you to break up. Now she’s back, and you feel you owe her something?” His face paled. “Who told you?” “You think you could keep this hidden?” I sneered. “Your phone’s photo album is full of her—in her pajamas, on the balcony, in a hotel bathroom wrapped in a towel. You even saved a picture of her toenails. Do you think I’m blind?” He opened his mouth to speak, but I’d had enough. I walked to the desk, pulled open the drawer—where our marriage certificate copy should have been. I felt something hard. It was my wedding ring, coated in ash, tossed carelessly into the ashtray. I stared at the ring, the gold band engraved with “E & N - 5.20.19.” Five years. Five years of late nights for this family. The year his startup failed, I quit my job at the investment bank, stayed up with him making presentations, meeting investors, writing business plans, revising line by line until three in the morning. I even helped him memorize his speeches, reminding him word for word outside the conference room not to stammer. Back then, he said, “Without you, I’m nothing.” Now? I’m the backdrop in his study, and she’s his “destiny.” I removed the other ring from my finger—I’d been wearing it all these days, pretending everything was normal—and in front of them, fed two pieces of paper into the shredder: our marriage certificate and the addendum to our prenuptial agreement stating that “infidelity by either party automatically triggers asset division proceedings.” The machine hummed, the paper confetti falling like snow. “What are you doing?” Nicholas lunged forward, trying to stop me. I locked the machine, meeting his gaze directly. “I’m getting a divorce. Now.” He was stunned. “You’re crazy? Because of…” “Not because of this scene,” I interrupted, “but because for the past five years you’ve treated me like a housekeeper, a secretary, a firefighter, but never a wife. Do you think I didn’t know you were secretly paying Sophia’s rent? That you put her on the board as a ‘brand consultant’? Do you take me for a fool?” Sophia finally spoke, her voice soft yet cutting. “Elena, calm down. You and he…you’ve had no feelings for ages, haven’t you? Why make such a scene?” I turned to her. “Are you so sure you’ve won?” She raised an eyebrow. “The facts speak for themselves.” I smiled, pulled my phone from my bag, opened the recording app, and played back the conversation from the moment I entered—from “Don’t be silly” to “You’re crazy,” crystal clear. “This recording,” I said, “will be sent to my lawyer. And,” I paused, “Martin Wu has been waiting outside for two hours. He has video of you two canoodling at the Ritz-Carlton for the past three months. Tomorrow morning at eight, #CarterCEOinfidelity will be trending.” Nicholas’s face went white. “You…you planned this?” “It wasn’t a plan, it was preparation,” I said. “I’ve been preparing for the day you’d force my hand.” I bypassed them and walked toward the door. “Elena!” He grabbed my wrist. “Let me explain! Sophia…she just…” “Just what?” I shrugged off his hand. “Just someone you can’t let go of? Someone you feel guilty about and need to compensate? Or, just a tool you use to humiliate me?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “You can’t leave!” Sophia’s voice rose sharply. “This isn’t just up to you! The Carter assets, the trusts, the offshore funds—you don’t understand how to handle them!” I stopped, turned, and looked at her. “Sophia, you’ve made a fatal mistake—you think I stayed because I needed the money. The truth is, I stayed because I still wanted to give this marriage a chance. I don’t need it anymore.” I took out my phone and called Lena. “Send it,” I said. “All the evidence, push it everywhere.” Hanging up, I addressed them: “My legal team will file for divorce within the hour. According to our five-year-old co-founding agreement, I’m entitled to 50% of the equity. As for the offshore trusts, unless you can prove I’m guilty of ‘gross misconduct,’ the court won’t support unilateral freezing. And by the way, Judge Harriet Lowe is presiding next week, and she despises men using money to control women.” I turned and went downstairs. As I reached the door, I heard Nicholas calling my name, his voice frantic, like a beaten dog. I didn’t look back. Outside, Martin Wu’s headlights illuminated the driveway. He nodded at me, a USB drive in his hand. “Did you get everything?” I asked. “Every second,” he said. “Even him calling her ‘baby.’” “Send it to Lena,” I said. “Let her handle the release.” I got into my car and started the engine. In the rearview mirror, the villa blazed with light, like a palace about to sink beneath the waves. My phone vibrated. Lena sent a link: #CarterCEOinfidelity was trending third, with a picture of Sophia sneaking out the back of a hotel, the headline reading: “Supermodel’s Return Shakes Up a Powerful Marriage? Carter Heir Exposed for Long-Term Affair.” I turned off my phone and put on some music—an old song, The Sundays’ “Here’s Where the Story Ends.” I hummed along to a couple of lines, then smiled. Five years. I’m finally no one’s wife, assistant, or savior. I am Elena Chen. Former co-founder of Carter Group, now an independent investor, the star of a divorce case, the center of a media storm. And this, is just the beginning.