Divorcing The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The scent of pan-seared steak, rosemary, and garlic filled the vast Park Avenue penthouse. Averie Fletcher made one last adjustment to the silver candlestick, its flame dancing and casting a warm glow across the perfectly set table for two. Three years. Tonight marked three years since she had become Mrs. Jarett Sharp. She smoothed the silk of her dress, a nervous habit, and glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:30 p.m. He was an hour and a half late. It wasn't unusual, but tonight, she had allowed herself to hope. Her phone vibrated against the linen tablecloth, a jarring buzz in the quiet room. Her stomach tightened. She didn't want any interruptions. But the message was from an unknown number, and it made the air leave her lungs in a sharp, painful rush. It wasn't a name she recognized. It was just a string of digits, impersonal and cold. Her fingers felt like ice as she stared at the glowing screen. A message notification. A photo attached. Every instinct screamed at her not to open it, to throw the phone across the room and pretend it never happened. But she couldn't. She drew a shaky breath and tapped the screen. The image loaded, crisp and damning. It was a woman's hand, nails painted a flawless, blood-red. The hand rested intimately on the chest of an expensive, custom-tailored suit. Averie's heart stopped. She knew that suit. It was the one Jarett had worn this morning. But it was the ring on the woman's fourth finger that stole the breath from her body. It wasn't a wedding band. It was a massive sapphire, surrounded by diamonds, an heirloom she had only ever seen in old photographs of Jarett's grandmother. The Sharp matriarch ring. And as the details sharpened, she recognized the woman. Candida Peck. The background was a blur of sterile white sheets. A hospital. The sound of a key in the front door made her flinch. Jarett Sharp stepped inside, his tall frame filling the doorway. He was loosening his tie, a gift bag from a luxury brand dangling from his fingers. He saw her, then his eyes took in the elaborate dinner, the candlelight. A tired smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his cold, gray eyes. "Sorry, I'm late." Averie didn't say a word. She couldn't. The betrayal was a physical weight in her chest, making it impossible to breathe, let alone speak. She simply raised her phone, turning the screen toward him. His gaze dropped to the photo. The smile on his face vanished, replaced by a flash of annoyance. Not guilt. Not surprise. Just the cold irritation of being inconvenienced. "Who sent you this?" he asked, his voice sharp. Then he seemed to realize it was her device, not his. Averie found her voice, but it was a stranger's. Brittle and trembling with a rage so deep it felt like it was freezing her from the inside out. "Happy anniversary, Jarett. It looks like you already celebrated." As if on cue, his own phone began to ring, its sharp tone slicing through the tense silence. The name on his screen was a confirmation she didn't need. Candida. He glanced at the call, then back at Averie, his expression hardening. He made a move to answer it. "Don't you dare," she whispered, a raw plea. She lunged forward, her hand reaching for his arm. "Not tonight, Jarett. Not on our..." He shoved her away. The movement was casual, dismissive, but the force sent her stumbling backward. She collided with the edge of the dining cart, the impact rattling a crystal vase. Red roses, the ones she'd bought this morning, spilled across the floor, their petals scattering like drops of blood on the white marble. Jarett had already answered the phone, his voice a complete transformation from the cold man who had just pushed her. It was low and gentle, full of a tenderness she had never, not once, heard directed at her. "Candida. It's okay. Don't be scared. I'm on my way." He walked past her, toward the coat closet, completely ignoring the mess of flowers and her, standing pale and trembling by the ruined dinner. She could hear him murmuring reassurances into the phone. He emerged with an overcoat, shrugging it on as he headed for the door. He didn't even look at her. "Jarett Sharp," she called out, her voice shaking but loud enough to make him pause. "If you walk out that door tonight..." He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head just enough to look at her over his shoulder. His eyes were devoid of any emotion except a clear, cold warning. A warning that told her she was nothing. Then he turned back, opened the door, and was gone.