Mr Grey, I want a divorce

004. Hello Mrs Grey

Asha

I couldn’t believe my own eyes.

Malakai—right here, right now, in the house.

The door hadn’t made a sound when it opened. No warning. No announcement. Just him—standing there as if he belonged there, as if nothing had changed. As if my world hadn’t tilted the moment I sent that message.

Was this a dream or what?

For a moment, my body forgot how to react. My feet stayed planted on the floor, my fingers curled slowly against my palm, nails pressing into skin as if pain might wake me up. My heart skipped once, then raced, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.

And he was holding flowers.

Were they for me—or for the other one?

The bouquet was immaculate. Too perfect. Carefully arranged, the kind of flowers chosen by someone who didn’t pick them himself. My eyes lingered on them longer than they should have, my chest tightening as memories rushed in uninvited—birthdays missed, anniversaries acknowledged only through deliveries, love reduced to objects.

So many questions flooded my mind, crashing into each other, tangling until I couldn’t separate one from the next. But his handsome face betrayed me. It always did. Despite how angry I was at him, despite everything I had rehearsed in my head for this moment, I couldn’t resist him.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I looked at him.

“So, are you going to welcome your husband,” he said, “or are you just going to stand there looking like you’ve seen an idol?”

His voice was smooth. Familiar. Too familiar.

He still held his pose—legs crossed, one arm resting casually on the couch. Relaxed. Unbothered. Like a man who owned not just the house, but the silence hanging between us.

I hated that he looked so comfortable.

I walked over and sat down on the opposite side of the couch, deliberately leaving space between us. The cushion dipped beneath my weight, the distance loud even without words. He noticed. Of course he did.

A faint frown touched his face—gone almost immediately, but I saw it.

“Are those for me?” I asked, reaching toward the flowers.

My fingers hovered just above the petals, hesitant, like they might burn me if I touched them.

“No. They’re for someone else,” he replied.

The words landed exactly where they were meant to.

I knew it.

He bought them for her.

My stomach twisted, heat spreading through my chest. Did he bring her here too? The thought made my jaw tighten. Because I knew that would be the next step—bringing your second wife home, making her real, unavoidable.

Then, to my surprise, he placed the flowers on my lap.

The weight startled me. The scent rose immediately—soft, expensive, suffocating.

“Who else would I be holding flowers for if not the wife I married?”

My fingers curled slowly around the stems, grip tightening.

“Okay,” I said, unable to hold it in. “Which one?”

The question slipped out sharp, raw, carrying everything I had swallowed for months.

He ignored my question—just like he always did. His gaze slid away, dismissive, effortless.

And I hated that.

It stung every time. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, familiar ache that settled deep in my chest.

“I have more important things to do,” he said. “So why did you ask for a divorce, Mrs. Grey? What exactly is wrong with you? You have everything. So why ask for a divorce?”

He stood up as he spoke, movements smooth and practiced. Adjusted his tie. Straightened his suit. Brushed his hair back with careless precision.

Each gesture screamed control.

“See, Mrs. Grey, there is no one like me out there. You will never find a man like me. I am everyone’s type. People love me. They adore me. Worship me. I am a king—a money-making king.”

His voice filled the room, confident, absolute. Like this was a speech he had given many times—to boardrooms, to investors, maybe even to himself.

Then he looked at me and said, “If you tell me you sent that message by mistake, I’ll pardon you. I’ll buy you a yacht—the latest one—or anything you want.”

I stared up at him, flowers still resting uselessly in my lap.

He sounded like he was trying to bribe me.

Honestly, I had expected something else. Maybe an apology. Maybe I’m sorry I missed your birthdays and anniversaries. Maybe acknowledgment. Or maybe the truth—that he married me so he could be with the woman he truly loved.

Instead, he offered money.

“I want a divorce, Mr. Malakai Grey.”

The words felt steady. Solid. Like they had been waiting for air.

“Why?” he asked. “Your life is perfect. You’re living a dream. So why do you want a divorce?”

“Because you’re in love with the other one,” I said plainly. “And you even married her. I’m freeing you from this marriage so you can be with the one you truly love.”

I didn’t beat around the bush.

There was no point anymore.

He just stared at me, confused—like I was speaking a foreign language.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You want me to be free with the other one? I knew it. That’s what you want, right? That’s why I work day and night—so we can have the best life. No lack. Everything I own is ours. And I’m happy you accept me being in love with the other one.”

He spoke as if a heavy weight had lifted from his chest.

Like this was good news.

So this was it.

He really had a second wife—and he was happy with her.

“So when will the divorce process begin?” I asked.

“There will be no divorce,” he replied firmly. “I won’t allow it. You belong here. This is better for us—for me, you, and—”

“I can’t believe you’re this despicable,” I cut in. “You want me to share you with your lover? You married me so you could secretly marry her too?”

“Hey, woman, I don’t like being cut off,” he snapped. “Let me finish. Me, you, and money. How does that sound?”

He gestured animatedly, hands carving shapes in the air, as if the idea was beautiful.

Was his second wife named money?

Or were we even talking about the same thing?

“I meant your second wife,” I said. “The other Mrs. Grey.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“On our wedding anniversary, you mistakenly sent me a bouquet meant for your other wife.”

“When did I marry another wife?” he said, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” I said. “You don’t need to hide it from me. How long were you planning to keep it a secret, Mr. Grey? The truth is out.”

“Mrs. Grey,” he said slowly, “the last marriage I had was with you—unless there was some extra package that came with you. Because I have no idea what second wife you’re talking about.”

Was he telling the truth?

Or was he making it all up?

“Look, Mrs. Grey, I’m not happy that you think I have another wife.” He paused, as if rethinking his words.

“Wait—did you do this on purpose so I’d come to you?”

A smile crept onto Kai’s face as he slowly walked toward me.

I was sitting on the couch. When Kai came closer, I tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go. He was too close—closer than he had ever been since our wedding night. I swear I could feel his breath against mine as I swallowed deeply. Him being this close meant more to me than all the expensive gifts he had ever sent.

“Mrs. Grey,” he murmured, “if you wanted me to come over and spend time with you, you should have just said so.”