After the Divorce, My Billionaire Husband Lost His Mind

Chapter 6

The morning after the gala, I couldn’t think. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. My empire felt hollow, my penthouse lifeless, my victories meaningless.

Elara had smiled at me. Not warmly. Not forgivingly. Not even teasingly. Just a small, calm, knowing smile—the kind that made my skin crawl and my heart hammer all at once.

I tried to convince myself it was over. That I could ignore it, pretend I was in control. But every fiber of me screamed otherwise. I was obsessed.

Obsessed with her. Obsessed with what I had lost. Obsessed with the idea that she might never forgive me.

I couldn’t let her go.

So I did the one thing a man like me would normally never do: I followed her.

Not physically—at least, not yet. I started small, subtle. Business calls that coincided with her meetings. Invitations to charity events I knew she’d attend. Even sending flowers, carefully unsigned, hoping she’d notice.

And she noticed.

She always noticed.

At lunch, I saw her walking into Le Jardin, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, her expression calm, almost untouchable. She scanned the room, eyes flicking over tables, stopping briefly to nod at the hostess. And then I saw it—the way she carried herself now, deliberate, composed, radiant.

I had loved her once. And now I was terrified I would never recognize her again.

I sat across the room, nursing my coffee, pretending I was there for a business meeting. But my eyes never left her. Not once.

Then she noticed me.

Not with shock, not with fear, not with longing. Just… awareness. She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly, her lips curving into the faintest smirk.

She wasn’t smiling at me. She was teasing me, and I hated it. Hated how calm she was while my chest heaved, my hands shook, my entire being felt on fire.

I stood, planning to approach her carefully, diplomatically. To prove I was serious. That I had changed.

But before I could move, she walked past me, stopping just close enough that I could smell her perfume. Subtle. Sophisticated. Invincible.

“You’re everywhere,” she said softly, barely audible over the restaurant hum. Her voice was calm, almost playful, but the message was clear: I see you. And I control whether you reach me.

I wanted to grab her, to plead, to beg—but she didn’t stop. She moved on, leaving me rooted in place, heart hammering, mind screaming.

The humiliation was exquisite. I had chased her like a man possessed, and she had turned my pursuit into a game I couldn’t win.

I followed her, though I knew it was madness. She went to a small boutique, elegant, understated, with no security, no entourage. I stayed across the street, watching her enter, imagining the distance between us like a chasm I might never cross.

Hours passed. I returned to the office, unable to focus on anything. I called her friends under false pretenses, trying to learn her schedule, her routines, anything. Every lead ended in nothing.

I was unraveling. Slowly. Insidiously.

And then the message came.

Simple. Short. Cold.

“Stop following me.”

No name. No signature. Just those three words.

I felt my blood run cold.

Not anger. Not shame. Not regret. Something worse.

Fear.

Because for the first time, I realized I was not in control. She was.

She had never been mine to control.

And if I didn’t tread carefully, I could lose her forever.

I stared at the message over and over, heart racing, realizing one terrifying truth: she could make me vanish from her life entirely… and I wouldn’t even have the power to fight it.