On My Show, I Divorced My Husband

Being the undisputed queen DJ of California Love Radio means my nightly call sheet is basically a roster of Cassian Sterling's latest mistresses. I deal with broadcast disasters the way other people deal with paperwork, but it keeps us at the top of the Sta. Barbara ratings, so who am I to complain? But tonight, the devil himself decided to call. I knew the second I heard his breath on the line that Cassian Sterling was trying to push my buttons. "Can you hear me clearly?" he asked, dripping with fake innocence. "Do me a favor and analyze this. If I called my wife right now, how do you think she'd feel?" What followed was thirty seconds of pure, unadulterated trash audio blasted straight to the entire internet. The station director's veins looked ready to pop. "This is a total catastrophic accident! You can actually hear... well, that noise at the end. Honestly? I think you're just addicted to being cheated on!" Beyond the soundproof glass, the paparazzi were already swarming the entrance like vultures. "There isn't a single wife in all of California as pathetic as her," they mocked. "Her husband literally treats her like a prop." They were all waiting for the breakdown. They wanted tears. They wanted a spectacle. Instead, I calmly adjusted my headset, flipped the receiver back on, and initiated a callback with the whole world watching. "Listener," I said, cool as ice. "I am officially notifying you right now that this version of Mrs. Sterling is signing off." The first thing that cut through the line was Cassian's muffled, post‑release groan, followed by a faint, mocking sneer. "What's wrong? Can't stand hearing it with your own ears?" "I'm serious. We're getting a divorce," I repeated, my voice steady as iron. The second the words left my mouth, a harsh busy signal cut me off. He had hung up. That night, the station's ratings hit an all‑time high, and the Sta. Barbara paparazzi practically chased my car all the way home. But the real circus was waiting inside. The moment I stepped into the house, I found Cassian lounging lazily on the sofa, wrapped in nothing but a towel. He smirked, his eyes crinkling into arrogant crescents. "Honey, the girl was the one who made that call. Are you really taking it out on me?" I walked right up to him, completely expressionless, and laid it out flat. "Go handle the divorce paperwork first thing tomorrow morning." I turned to walk away, but Cassian's ice‑cold warning echoed behind me, cutting through the room. "Phoebe Wilson, I thought after what happened five years ago, you had finally learned how to be a good Mrs. Sterling." I froze, the air leaving my lungs. Five years ago... The first time Cassian cheated, I had caused a massive scene. I threw a page right out of the classic scorned‑wife playbook, shipping his little mistress off to the mainland, making sure she could never return to Santa Barbara. But his retaliation was instant, and it was brutal. Cassian took my three‑month‑old baby and sent him to Los Angeles to be raised by that exact same woman. He trapped me here in this city, effectively ensuring my son and I would live out our lives as strangers. I remembered sobbing desperately on the cold floor back then, begging him through hysterical tears to give my baby back. He had just gently stroked my face, his voice sickeningly soft, "I know you're a good mommy, but I need to teach you how to be my wife first. Is this memorable enough for you, Phoebe?" Watching the child I nearly died giving birth to smile and call another woman 'Mommy' on a tablet screen? Yeah. It was unforgettable. My eyes blurred with fresh tears, my heart physically crushing under the weight of the memory. That was when Cassian finally stood up. He stepped in close, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, his breathing heavy in my ear. "Phoebe, didn't you want to hear it earlier?" In an instant, a painfully familiar scent hit the air. The world tilted. I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had, staring at him in utter incredulity. "Cassian Sterling... the woman you brought home just now... is she the illegitimate daughter who put my mom in the hospital from pure rage?" I would recognize that distinct perfume if I were blind and buried. Knocked back onto the sofa, Cassian didn't even bother to deny it. Instead, his smirk vanished, and he completely lost his patience. "Phoebe Wilson, you've gone way too far!" he snapped, using my full name like a weapon. "Jean works harder and has way more ambition than you ever did. She didn't get her spot at the radio station by riding her husband's scandalous coattails!" He stood up, towering over me, his eyes dark with malice. "If you know what's good for you, you'll take good care of her. Otherwise, she's going to be tomorrow's top radio host, and I'll personally guarantee you never work in this town again!" With a violent sweep of his hand, he smashed his teacup against the floor. The sharp ceramic fragments exploded upward, slicing deep into my bare arm. Droplets of crimson immediately began to splatter, staining the pristine white carpet. Cassian didn't even blink at the blood. He simply glanced down at his buzzing phone, checked the caller ID, grabbed his coat, and stormed out into the night without another word. The front door slammed shut, leaving a suffocating wave of helplessness and humiliation wrapped tightly around my throat. I stood there, bleeding in the quiet house, gasping for air. But as I looked down at the red stains on the floor, the sadness finally burned away into something else. Pure rage. Using the absolute last bit of strength I had left, I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in years. "It's me," I whispered into the receiver, my voice trembling but certain. "Help me draw up a divorce agreement. I'm taking everything."