MY EX-WIFE IS A BILLIONAIRE

The supermarket was quiet for a Thursday evening, just the low hum of refrigeration units and the occasional squeak of a cart wheel against polished floors. Beatrice moved slowly down the condiment aisle, her fingers drifting absently across the rows of pasta sauces without really seeing them. Her mind was somewhere else entirely. Her phone buzzed in her handbag. She already knew who it was before she glanced at the screen. "Nancy," she answered quietly. "You sound like someone who hasn't slept in three days," Nancy said, skipping the greeting entirely. "Please don't tell me you're still out running errands after everything." "It's fine. I just needed a few things." Beatrice placed a jar of tomato basil sauce into her cart and pushed it forward. "Micheal asked for one of my gourmet dinners. And honestly, I needed the air." "He asked for a home-cooked meal." Nancy's voice was flat. "After everything?" "It's not a big deal, Nance." "Bea." Nancy said her name the way she always did when she was about to say something Beatrice didn't want to hear carefully, like she was setting down something fragile. "We've been friends since we were five years old. You don't have to perform for me. You haven't been okay in months. I can hear it." Beatrice tightened her grip on the cart handle and said nothing. She paused at the dairy section and picked up a carton of milk just to keep her hands occupied. "Marriage isn't something you just walk away from," she said at last. "No," Nancy agreed. "But it's also not supposed to be something you survive. He's never there, Bea. And when he is, he makes you feel worse than when he's gone. I've heard things, even from here. He's not being faithful to you. Why do you keep putting yourself through this?" The words landed somewhere tender. Beatrice blinked and stared at the grocery list in her hand, her own neat handwriting, impossible to focus on. "I made vows," she said quietly. "I still believe he can change. Maybe that's foolish, but…" "It's not foolish to want love," Nancy interrupted, her voice softening. "It's not foolish to hope. But Bea, there's a difference between hope and slowly breaking yourself for someone who stopped seeing you a long time ago." Beatrice closed her eyes briefly. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. "Things will get better," she whispered. "They have to." "And if they don't?" She had no answer. She stood there among the strangers and the grocery carts, holding a carton of milk and a question she couldn't answer. "I have to go, Nance. I'll call you later." She hung up before Nancy could say anything else. * * * She returned to the mansion just after eight. The hallway lights were on, which meant Micheal was home, earlier than usual. She set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and was reaching for the cabinet when she heard the door behind her open. He came in without a greeting. His face was carved tight, jaw locked, something dark moving behind his eyes. He held a leather folder at his side like it was a weapon. "Micheal." She turned toward him. "Is everything alright? You're home early." "We need to talk," he said flatly. He moved to the dining table and set the folder down. He did not ask her to sit, he told her to. She pulled out the chair across from him, her pulse quickening. He opened the folder and slid photographs across the table one by one. Beatrice stared at them. Her face. Her body. A man she had never seen before. Images arranged to tell a story that had never happened. "These aren't real." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. She picked one up with trembling fingers. "Micheal, look at me. You know me. Anyone can manipulate a photograph. This is fabricated." "Clarissa brought these to me," he said. "She's been watching for months. I didn't believe her at first." He paused. "Now I do." "Clarissa." She set the photograph down. "Your personal assistant. Micheal, open your eyes. She has wanted you since before I knew your name. She despises me. She's been trying to destroy this marriage since the day I walked in." "Enough." "Enough?" She rose from her chair. "The truth is that I have been faithful to you every single day of this marriage. I have waited and hoped and held on even when you gave me nothing to hold onto and this is what I get? Lies you choose to believe because they are easier than trusting me?" He folded his arms. His expression did not change. "I want a divorce, Beatrice." The words hit her like cold water. "Micheal, please. Listen to me. Someone is trying to…" He slid a pen across the table. "Sign the papers. Tonight. I don't want to have anything to do with you ever again. It will be better for both of us." Her eyes stung. "And then what? You discard me and go straight to her? What about everything we planned, the family, the life we were building? You're willing to throw all of that away because of a photograph?" "I can't live in a marriage built on doubt," he said. "I'm done, Beatrice. I'm tired." She stared at him for a long moment. The man she had loved. The man she had stayed for. She waited for something, remorse, hesitation, anything. There was nothing. She reached for the pen. Her hand shook as she signed her name, and she hated herself for crying while she did it. She pushed the papers back across the table without looking at him. She stood slowly. "Tell me something, Micheal." He glanced at her, arms still folded. "Was any of it real? Did you ever love me, even once or was I just something to fill the space until someone better came along?" He said nothing. He simply looked at the door. She picked up her bag. She walked to the door. She paused on the threshold for just a moment, long enough to feel the full weight of what she was leaving behind then stepped out and pulled it shut behind her.