After Divorce，I Became His Only Love

Serena's POV

I was dragged from sleep by a parched, sandpaper rawness in my throat. I didn't know what time it was.

The other side of the bed was empty—Leo still hadn't finished working. I rolled over, pushed the covers aside, and sat up, intending to get a glass of water from the dining room.

I stopped at the top of the stairs.

The study door wasn't fully closed. A sliver of warm yellow light spilled through the gap, and then I heard it—a deliberately stifled panting.

Curiosity pulled me forward. I pushed the door open.

Leo was sitting in his chair, shirttails pulled loose from his waistband, head tipped back against the headrest. His hand moved rapidly beneath him. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, his breathing ragged.

The glow of the computer screen washed across his face, his expression twisted in a kind of desperate abandon.

The instant I stepped in, Leo reached his peak—a low growl tore from his throat, and he spilled into his own hand.

I had no sexual experience, but I was an adult. I knew exactly what he'd been doing.

"Leo… you…"

A complicated look flickered across his face. He shut off the monitor, straightened himself with practiced speed, then stood and walked toward me. His tone carried just the right measure of embarrassment and sincerity.

"I'm sorry you had to see that. But I'm a grown man—I have needs."

My cheeks burned. I lowered my voice. "But… we're married. I'm your wife. You could—"

Leo pulled me into his arms. "You know I can't bear to hurt you. And I'd never go to another woman. So I handle it myself. When you're a little older… I promise I'll make it so you can't get out of bed."

"Leo."

I reached up to touch his face. My fingertips met the faint warmth along his cheekbone. "I can help you. Even without going all the way—I could use my hands, or… my mouth. I'm your wife. I don't want you bearing this alone."

His gaze darkened for a split second. His Adam's apple bobbed. But he reined in that flash of something almost immediately, folding my fingers into his palm and pressing his lips to my fingertips.

"How could I let you do that?"

His mouth brushed across the back of my hand, his voice as sweet and gentle as melted sugar. "You're my treasure. How could I ever ask you to do those things for me?"

That night, curled up in his arms as I drifted back to sleep, my heart felt impossibly full. I believed I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Three days later was our wedding anniversary.

I'd prepared a limited-edition watch for Leo, nestled in a velvet box. I put on a new dress, planning to surprise him.

I went to the private club he frequented—I knew he kept a regular room there. But just as I was about to push the door open, I heard his voice from inside.

"You have to take care of yourself—and take care of our baby."

It was Leo's voice.

Tender. Cautious. Carrying a kind of solemnity I had never once heard from him.

My hand froze in midair.

Baby.

He said baby.

My mind slammed to a halt, every image freezing in place.

I stood outside that door, the velvet box still clutched in my fingers, the texture of it turning unreal against my skin.

I had been "Mrs. Leo" for two years. Two years in which he never touched me, claiming he was afraid of hurting me. And all along, his child was growing inside another woman.

The velvet box slipped from my hand. I pushed the door open.

It crashed against the wall with a dull thud.

The scene inside was like a frozen tableau—Leo on the sofa, leaning slightly forward, his palm resting gently on a woman's belly.

And the woman wore a languid smile at the corner of her lips.

I almost wondered if I was dreaming. Leo's mistress was his own brother's wife.

Leo whipped his head around, pupils contracting sharply. His first reaction wasn't guilt or panic—it was an instinctive, anxious glance at Tiffany, making sure she wasn't startled. Only then did he turn to me.

That order of priority crushed the last shred of hope in my chest.

He adjusted his collar. His voice slipped back into that smooth, detached register. "Serena, what are you doing here?"

A pause. "You shouldn't have come. If you hadn't, we could have gone on just fine."

I thought it was the most absurd thing I'd ever heard in my life.

My hands shook uncontrollably, but my voice came out far steadier than I expected. "If I hadn't come, you two could have kept carrying on behind my back? If I hadn't come, was I supposed to stay asleep in my own delusion forever?"

My eyes locked onto Leo's. Every trace of the girlhood adoration I'd once felt shattered into dust in that moment.

Tiffany didn't panic.

She cradled her belly with one hand, then lifted her gaze to me. Her smile held a kind of condescending pity, as though she were looking at a child who simply didn't understand the world.

"Serena, you can't blame us." Her voice was soft, honeyed. "Leo and I are truly in love. You're the one who took my lover away and ruined our happiness. If you're smart, you'll keep playing the role of Mrs. Leo—and everything you have now, the house, the designer bags, your place in high society—none of that has to change."

"I don't need any of it."

I cut her off, then fixed my stare on Leo. My voice carried an unshakable resolve. "Leo, I want a divorce."

The air seemed to solidify.

Tiffany's smile froze on her face. The teacup in her hand hovered in midair.

Leo's pupils contracted violently. He stepped forward, his voice turning cold. "What did you say?"

"Divorce." I met his eyes without flinching. "I made myself perfectly clear."

A blade of cold light flashed through his gaze. "You think divorce is your decision to make?"

His voice dropped low, but every word pressed down like a weight. "And I imagine your grandmother—Mrs. Lydia—wouldn't want you to divorce either."

Grandmother.

Lydia.

The moment he invoked her name, it was like a hand closing precisely around my throat.

My body trembled involuntarily.

Leo saw the tremor. A flicker of barely perceptible satisfaction passed through the depths of his eyes.

But I steadied myself quickly. I clenched my fists, driving my nails into the flesh of my palms. That sharp sting of pain dragged me back from the edge.

I straightened my spine and met his gaze head-on. "No one gets to decide my life for me."

Something shifted in Leo's eyes.

I didn't wait for his response. I turned and walked out.

In the car, I gripped the steering wheel with both hands and pressed my forehead against my knuckles.

Leo's parting words lodged like a thorn in the deepest part of me. He knew me too well—knew exactly where I was most vulnerable.

But there was no going back.

I couldn't spend the rest of my life trapped in a marriage that had been a lie from start to finish.

No matter what it took, I had to divorce Leo.

I sat up, dug my phone out of my bag, and dialed Willow's number.

Two rings and she picked up. I heard the rustle of pages on her end—probably still working late at the firm.

"Willow, are you free right now?" My voice sounded impossibly calm, even to me. "I need to see you."

Willow didn't ask why. She simply said, crisp and decisive: "Sure."

Then she named a bar.

I drove fast. The Beverly Hills nightscape streaked backward past my windows—neon lights splattering against the windshield in blurred halos of color.

The bar was in downtown Los Angeles. Willow hadn't arrived yet when I got there.

I sat in a corner of the bar, a bourbon on the rocks in front of me. The amber liquid clung in a thin film to the glass walls; the ice melted faster than I expected, crackling with tiny, crystalline sounds.

I'd just finished the first glass when someone approached.

Not one person. Three.

They materialized like sharks drawn to blood, drifting over from some dark corner, leering as they closed in.

One man reached over and slung his arm around my shoulders. The stench of alcohol and cheap cologne hit me full in the face. "Hey gorgeous, all alone?"

Before I could shrug him off, a second man leaned into my face, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He blew a lungful of smoke directly at me. The gray-white haze choked into my nose and throat. I coughed violently, twice—hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I stood, trying to leave, but my legs went inexplicably boneless. My whole body pitched forward, caught by the arm already draped across my shoulders.

The third man laughed. He held a glass of something unidentifiable and pressed it to my lips. The rim clinked against my teeth as cold liquid poured into my mouth. "Here, drink up, sweetheart. It'll make you feel good…" His voice carried a nauseating excitement. "We're gonna have a real good time…"

The instant the liquid hit my throat, I tasted something that didn't belong to alcohol—a bitterness spreading across the root of my tongue.

No. There's something else in this.

My consciousness began dissolving at a terrifying speed. Sounds grew distant. Lights blurred and scattered. The faces crowding around me dissolved into smears of color.

I tried to struggle, but my body no longer obeyed.

In the last moment before my vision went completely dark, I saw a figure.

Through the gaps in the crowd, behind the dim lights and drifting smoke, someone was striding toward me.

Tall. Moving fast. The people around him parting as though pushed aside by an invisible force.

Impossible.

I had to be seeing things.

How could it be him…

Winston…?

And then, after that single thought, consciousness plunged into total darkness.