Alpha CEO Desired Me After Divorce

Evangeline's POV. I sit at the edge of our bed, my phone trembling in my hands, my heartbeat loud enough to drown out every other sound in the house. The room is quiet, too quiet. No humming TV. No clinking dishes. Just the suffocating silence. My eyes keep flicking to the framed photo of us on the wall—our wedding day. I'm wearing white, glowing, and he's smiling at me like I’m everything. But that man doesn’t exist anymore. My fingers hover over the screen. The contact name—Damien (Lina Uncle) burns into my eyes, I had managed to get his contact through a remote source, he was someone formidable, feared for his ruthlessness in the whole city. I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t breathe without feeling like I’m falling apart from the inside out. I take a breath and then another. And I click on the call button. He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?” His voice is deep, steady. Nothing like my husband’s cold dismissive tone these days. “This is Evangeline,” I say, my voice too small even to my own ears. There is a pause before he speaks out, “Yes… I know who you are.” I swallow, my fingers clenching tight around the phone. “I won’t take up your time. I just need you to talk to Lina.” “To Lina?” he asks, sounding mildly surprised. “Yes. Tell her to stay away from my husband.” He says nothing. The silence drags, and I rush to fill it. “I’m not calling to threaten her. I’m not here to argue or play games. I’m tired. I’ve spent months, no, a year pretending I don’t see it. But I see everything. And I’m asking… please. Tell her to stop. She’s breaking my home.” He sighs, low and long. “You should be telling your husband that, not me.” “I already have,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “But he doesn’t care.” “I’m asking you, no, begging you—to tell your niece to leave my husband alone. This affair... it’s destroying my family. My son doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this.” There’s a pause. Then, his voice softens just a little. “Noted.” The line goes dead before I can say another word. I sit there, staring at the phone, unsure what I expected, sympathy? A promise? Nothing about this feels like a victory. Until the door slams downstairs few minutes later and my stomach drops. Footsteps. Fast. Angry. I barely have time to blink before he storms inside the room. James. My husband. The man I married three years ago. The father of my son. His eyes blaze when they land on me, and I know, he knows. “How dare you Lina. You called him?” His voice is sharp enough to slice through skin. I stand, heart pounding. “I… yes. I did.” He steps closer, jaw clenched. “You called Lina's uncle and told him what? That Lina’s breaking your home? That she should stay away?” I flinch. “Because she is. James, she’s—” “You had no right,” he snaps, cutting me off. “No right to drag my name through the mud. No right to humiliate me like that!” I stare at him, stunned. “Humiliate you? You’ve been cheating on me for nearly a year, James! She’s in your phone as ‘Lina Baby’—you text her while I’m in the kitchen making dinner. You bought her jewelry on our anniversary. And I’m the one humiliating you?” His nostrils flare. “You’re obsessed.” “I’m your wife! What do you want me to do—clap for you?” “You could’ve kept your mouth shut.” That stings more than I care to admit. I laugh, bitter and broken. “Of course. That’s all I’ve been doing. Keeping quiet. Pretending. Making excuses to my son for why Daddy doesn’t come home some nights. Paying the bills. Putting food on the table. I even send you money every month, James. From my own salary. He rolls his eyes. “Spare me the martyr act. You think because you’re working, you’re better than me?” “No, I think because I’m working and carrying the entire family while you refuse job after job because it doesn’t suit your ‘pride,’ I have a right to be angry.” “Enough,” he says, voice cold. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “What are you doing?” I ask, my heart stuttering. He dials. “Yes, I need to report a case of harassment… on my wife… yes, she called a family member threatening them… no, I want to press charges.” My ears start ringing. “James,” I gasp, my voice hoarse. “What are you doing?” He turns away, still talking. “Yes, she’s here now.” “James, please…” My voice breaks. “You can’t do this.” But he can. “You’re calling the police on me? After everything—after everything I’ve done for you?” “You crossed a line, Eva.” I shake my head. “I’ve fed you. Clothed you. I paid your phone bills, your credit cards, your gym memberships. I gave you seven years of my life—three as your wife. I found you jobs and you refused all of them because your ‘pride’ was too big for retail or office work. I let you stay home because I believed you’d figure it out. And now you’re—what? Punishing me for caring?” He doesn’t flinch. “You made me feel small. Like I was just your charity case." “I made you feel loved, James. Even when you didn’t deserve it.” A knock comes fifteen minutes later. Loud and hard. I stand frozen as two officers walk in. They read me my rights like I’m some common criminal. They cuff me while my son watches from the hallway, clutching his teddy bear, his eyes wide and wet. “Mommy?” he calls from behind. I can’t even look at him. If I do, I’ll shatter. “Is this really necessary?” I ask the officers. “We got a call. The accusation is harassment. You’ll be processed and questioned. If there’s no merit, you’ll be released.” I look at James one last time. His arms are folded. His expression blank. He doesn’t speak a word as they take me away into the car. In the patrol car, I finally cry. Not because of the cold cuffs digging into my wrists. Not because of the shame or the fear. But because I now know something I hadn’t allowed myself to believe before. He doesn’t love me. He never did. We arrive at the station. I’m still in my nightgown, a thin robe wrapped tightly around me, trembling as people peek out their eyes wide towards me. At the station, they process me like I’m nothing. They take my photo, my prints. They put me in a holding cell that smells like urine. I sit on the metal bench, hugging my knees to my chest, trying not to fall apart. My phone was confiscated. I can’t call anyone. I can’t explain. I can’t breathe. I can't even use my connections. The tears come later, when no one is looking. I think of Nathan's smile, my son. His tiny hands grabbing mine when he’s scared of the dark. He was the only reason I was still holding onto. I think of the nights I stayed up sewing buttons back on James’ shirts. The mornings I skipped breakfast so he could eat. The job interviews I scheduled for him, one after another, all declined. All for what? So he could turn around and have me arrested? Hours pass. Maybe more. Time doesn’t exist here, just fluorescent lights and echoing footsteps. Then, just when I think I might be left there all night, an officer returns. “Someone posted your bail.” My head snaps up immediately “What?” He unlocks the door, nodding. “You’re free to go ma'am.” I shuffle out, my legs stiff. My heart races with a mix of confusion and dread. “Who—who paid my bail?” He doesn’t answer and just led me out. When I step outside, the cold air hits me like a slap and then, my eyes landed on the very least person I hadn't expected to meet in a lifetime. Leaning against a sleek black car with his arms folded. Damien Hunter. Lina’s uncle. The same man I called hours ago. The man I begged. He looks up as I approach, his face unreadable. His suit is crisp. His eyes sharp and strange meet mine and hold and God! He was gorgeous, too gorgeous that I can't hold my breath. How could one man be terrifying and hot at once? “Get in,” he says simply. I freeze. “Why?” I ask. “Because you need a ride Evangeline Wales”