The Billionaire regret: Reclaiming his contract Bride

The Gala

CHAPTER 3

The pregnancy test said six weeks. My doctor said eight. Either way, I was running out of time to hide it.

"You look pale," Maya said, watching me try on the fourth dress of the morning. "Are you sure you can do this?"

I looked at myself in the mirror. The emerald green dress fit perfectly. Damien had always liked me in green. Not that I cared what he liked anymore.

Liar, a voice in my head whispered. You still care.

"I have to do this," I said, smoothing down the fabric. "The contract says I have to maintain appearances until the divorce is final. That means playing the perfect wife at his stupid company events."

"Even though everyone knows you're getting divorced?"

"The papers aren't filed yet. Officially, we're still married." I turned away from the mirror. I looked like a ghost. Two weeks of morning sickness and crying had hollowed out my face. "Officially, I'm still Mrs. Damien Cross."

Maya made a face. "I hate him."

"Get in line."

My phone buzzed. Jennifer Park, Damien's assistant.

Jennifer: Car will pick you up at 6 PM. Mr. Cross will meet you at the venue. Please be on time.

Not even a text from him directly. Everything through his assistant. Like always.

I texted back a single word: Fine.

6 PM...

The car was exactly on time. Same driver as always. Same perfect black car. Same everything.

Except everything was different now.

I slid into the back seat, my stomach already churning. Morning sickness was supposed to be in the morning, right? So why did I feel nauseous all the time?

"Evening, Mrs. Cross," the driver said.

"Hi, James."

At least James was nice. In three years, he'd been one of the few people in Damien's world who treated me like a human being.

The drive to the venue felt too short. I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready.

The gala was at some fancy hotel in Midtown. The kind of place where the bathroom was nicer than my old apartment. Rich people everywhere in expensive clothes, drinking expensive wine, talking about expensive things.

I used to feel so out of place at these events. Now I just felt numb.

James opened my door. "You look beautiful, Mrs. Cross."

"Thanks, James."

I stepped out, and immediately the cameras started flashing. Paparazzi. Because of course there were paparazzi.

"Sophia! Over here!"

"Mrs. Cross, is it true you're divorcing?"

"Sophia, are the rumors about Isabella Chen true?"

I kept my head up, my face blank. Smiled like I'd been taught. Walked up the red carpet like I wasn't dying inside.

The hotel lobby was crowded. Donors, investors, celebrities. Everyone who was anyone. And somewhere in this crowd was Damien.

And probably Isabella.

My stomach twisted. I pressed a hand to it, trying to calm the nausea.

Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Don't throw up.

"Sophia!"

I turned. Richard Cross was walking toward me, his face kind and worried.

"Richard." I let him hug me. He smelled like expensive cologne and old books.

"How are you holding up, dear?"

"I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar." He pulled back, studying my face. "You've lost weight."

"I've been stressed."

"Understandable." He offered me his arm. "Let me escort you inside. We can avoid... certain people for as long as possible."

I took his arm gratefully. "Thank you."

We walked into the ballroom together. It was beautiful. Crystal chandeliers, white roses everywhere, a full orchestra playing something classical.

And there, across the room, was Damien.

My heart stopped.

He looked... god, he looked perfect. Black tuxedo that fit him like it was made for him. Because it probably was. Dark hair styled just right. Those gray eyes scanning the crowd.

And next to him, her hand on his arm, was Isabella Chen.

She was beautiful. Of course she was. Long black hair, perfect makeup, a red dress that probably cost more than a car. She was laughing at something Damien said, looking up at him with adoring eyes.

The same way I used to look at him.

I couldn't breathe.

"Sophia..." Richard started.

"I'm fine." My voice sounded far away. "I'm fine. I just need... I need some air."

"Let me come with you..."

"No. Please. I just need a minute."

I pulled away from him and walked quickly toward the balcony doors. Had to get outside. Had to breathe. Had to..

"Sophia."

I froze. That voice.

I turned slowly.

Damien stood behind me, alone. Isabella must still be inside.

"Damien." My voice was cold. Good.

"You look beautiful."

I almost laughed. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend you care. Don't do this." I crossed my arms over my stomach, suddenly self-conscious. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk before we went in together. The press is watching. We should present a united front."

"A united front." I did laugh then, bitter and sharp. "We're getting divorced, Damien. I think the united front is kind of over."

His jaw tightened. "The papers aren't filed yet."

"Only because your lawyers are slow."

"Sophia..."

"No. You don't get to Sophia me. You wanted this divorce. You were relieved when I said it. So let's just get through tonight, play pretend one last time, and then we never have to see each other again."

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger? Regret? I didn't know and I didn't care.

"Fine," he said. "But we go in together. Smile. Act like everything's fine."

"I've been acting like everything's fine for three years. What's one more night?"

I brushed past him toward the ballroom doors.

"Sophia, wait..."

"Mrs. Cross!"

A reporter appeared out of nowhere, camera and microphone ready. "Mrs. Cross, can you comment on the rumors about your marriage?"

Damien was beside me instantly, his hand on the small of my back. To anyone watching, it looked protective. Loving even.

I wanted to throw up.

"My wife and I are very happy," Damien said smoothly. "The rumors are just that. Rumors."

"And what about Isabella Chen? Sources say she's been spending a lot of time at Cross Empire—"

"Ms. Chen is a business consultant. Nothing more." Damien's hand pressed harder against my back. Warning me to play along. "Now if you'll excuse us."

He steered me away from the reporter, his hand still on me. Still touching me like he had the right.

We walked into the ballroom together. Cameras flashing. People whispering. Everyone watching.

I felt like I was going to pass out.

"Smile," Damien muttered under his breath.

I smiled. That same fake smile I'd perfected over three years.

"There's Isabella," he said.

Of course. Of course he was looking for her.

Isabella waved at us, her smile bright and fake. She walked over, her red dress shimmering under the chandeliers.

"Damien!" She kissed his cheek. Then looked at me. "Sophia. How nice to see you."

"Isabella."

"You look... tired." Her eyes scanned me up and down. "Are you feeling alright?"

Tired. That was rich coming from the woman who was sleeping with my husband.

"I'm fine," I said through gritted teeth.

"Well, you know what they say. Divorce is so stressful." She said it sweetly, but her eyes were sharp. Knowing.

She knew. She knew about the divorce and she was rubbing it in my face.

Damien tensed beside me. "Isabella..."

"Oh, don't worry, Damien. I'm sure Sophia understands." Isabella touched his arm, possessive. "After all, sometimes things just... don't work out. No hard feelings, right, Sophia?"

I wanted to slap her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her exactly what I thought of her and her fake smile and her cheap perfume.

But I didn't.

Because I was Sophia Martinez. And Sophia Martinez didn't make scenes.

"Right," I said softly. "No hard feelings."

"Good!" Isabella beamed. "Now, Damien, didn't you promise me a dance?"

She pulled him toward the dance floor before he could answer.

I watched them go. Watched her lean into him. Watched him put his hand on her waist.

The same way he used to hold me. Except when he held me, it was for show. When he held her, it was real.

My stomach lurched.

I turned and walked quickly toward the bathroom. Had to get away. Had to...

I barely made it to a stall before I threw up.

Morning sickness. Perfect timing.

I sat on the bathroom floor, my expensive dress pooling around me, and pressed my hand to my stomach.

"It's okay," I whispered. "It's okay, baby. We're going to be okay."

The bathroom door opened. Heels clicking on marble.

"Sophia? Are you in here?"

Maya. Thank god.

"I'm here."

She found me in the stall, sitting on the floor like a mess.

"Oh, honey." She crouched down beside me. "Let's get you out of here."

"I can't. The contract says..."

"Screw the contract. You're pregnant and sick and your asshole husband is dancing with his mistress. We're leaving."

"Maya..."

"No arguments. Come on."

She helped me up. Helped me fix my makeup. Helped me look somewhat human again.

"I'll tell them you have food poisoning," she said. "No one will question it."

We walked out of the bathroom together. The ballroom was still crowded, still loud, still full of people who didn't care that my life was falling apart.

I looked toward the dance floor one last time.

Damien was still dancing with Isabella. She was laughing. He was smiling.

He looked happy.

Happier than I'd ever seen him in three years of marriage.

And just like that, something inside me broke.

Not my heart. That was already broken.

My hope.

The stupid, naive hope that maybe he'd realize he made a mistake. That maybe he'd come after me. That maybe, somehow, this would work out.

It wouldn't.

He didn't love me.

He never loved me.

And he never would.

"Let's go," I said to Maya.

We walked out of the gala, past the reporters, past the cameras, past all of it.

And I didn't look back.

In the car...

Maya held my hand the whole ride to her apartment. I couldn't go back to the penthouse. Not tonight. Not yet.

"You okay?" she asked quietly.

"No." I looked out the window at the city passing by. "But I will be."

My phone buzzed. I looked at it.

Richard Cross: I'm so sorry, dear. You shouldn't have had to endure that. Damien is a fool.

I smiled sadly. At least Richard cared.

Then another text. From a number I didn't recognize.

Unknown: You left early. Are you alright? - D

Damien.

I stared at the message for a long time.

He was asking if I was alright. Now. After three years of not caring. After asking for a divorce. After dancing with Isabella right in front of me.

Now he wanted to know if I was alright?

I deleted the message.

And then I blocked his new number too.

At Maya's apartment...

I changed into borrowed pajamas and curled up on her couch.

"Five and a half months," I said quietly. "Five and a half months until the divorce is final and I can leave."

"You can make it," Maya said, handing me tea. "You're stronger than you think."

"I don't feel strong."

"Strong people never do."

I sipped the tea, my hand on my stomach. "I saw them together tonight. Dancing. Smiling. He looked... happy."

"Then he's an idiot."

"No. He's just finally with the woman he actually wants." I set down the tea. "And I'm just the business deal he's finally getting rid of."

"Sophia..."

"It's okay." And weirdly, it kind of was. "I'm not going to waste any more time loving someone who doesn't love me back. I'm going to focus on this baby. On building a new life. On being happy."

"Good." Maya squeezed my hand. "You deserve to be happy."

Did I? I didn't know anymore.

But my baby deserved a happy mother.

So I'd figure it out.

Somehow.

Meanwhile, across the city...

Damien stood on his penthouse balcony, phone in his hand, staring at the message that said Not Delivered.

She'd blocked him. Again.

He didn't know why that bothered him so much.

Inside, Isabella was calling his name, wanting to celebrate their "successful" evening.

But all he could think about was Sophia's face when she saw him with Isabella.

The way her eyes had gone empty.

Like he'd killed something inside her.

He told himself he didn't care.

He told himself this was what he wanted.

He was lying.

But he wouldn't realize that until it was too late.