My Husband Demanded A Divorce To Marry His Mistress — So I Secretly Bought His Ruined Estate And Evicted Them Both
Part 2
The rider handed me the letter with shaking hands, the royal crest of Greg’s estate pressed firmly into the wax seal.
I did not open it immediately, simply setting it on my desk next to the shipping manifests I was reviewing.
Over the last six months, I had retreated to a sprawling ivy-covered stone manor on the coast, reclaiming my maiden name.
I had quietly purchased controlling shares in several regional textile mills, riding out every morning to negotiate contracts and oversee the docks.
I wore simple clothes, baked bread in my own kitchens, and finally slept soundly through the night without the crushing weight of his disdain.
The letter sat there for hours, a stark reminder of the life I had left behind.
When I finally broke the seal, the contents were far more pathetic than I could have ever imagined.
Greg’s pristine world had rapidly disintegrated into a chaotic nightmare the moment I walked out the door.
Heather had moved in, but she had absolutely no interest in managing a household of fifty servants or balancing a budget.
She alienated the staff, drove the head chef to resign, and racked up staggering debts with every jeweler in the city.
Greg’s accountants finally had to sit him down and explain the terrifying reality of his finances.
They revealed that his estate’s income barely covered the interest on his late father’s debts.
They confessed that I had been paying for absolutely everything out of my private dividends for four straight years.
He realized I had been silently holding up the pillars of his crumbling world while he openly paraded another woman through town.
To make matters worse, a private investigator he hired uncovered that Heather wasn’t even a widow.
Her husband was very much alive in an asylum, and she had been forging Greg’s signature to send him payments.
Greg threw her out into the street, his entire life collapsing around him in a matter of days.
Now, he was begging for my forgiveness, pleading for a chance to make things right.
He wrote that he was riding to Somerset to see me, desperate to grovel at my feet.
I folded the letter, slipping it into my pocket as I walked down to the docks to meet with my bankers.
I knew exactly what I was going to do when he arrived.
If your ex-husband showed up covered in mud to beg for a second chance after destroying you, would you give him one, or would you deliver the final blow?
Part 3
The heavy vellum documents sat on the polished mahogany desk, their crisp edges stark against the dark wood.
Greg, the ninth duke of a sprawling estate, stood with his back to the roaring fireplace, his broad shoulders rigid beneath an impeccably tailored midnight-blue coat.
His sharp aristocratic features were set in a mask of absolute, impenetrable coldness as he stared at the woman seated across from him.
Megan, his wife of four agonizing years, sat perfectly still, looking at the papers that were about to sever her from this nightmare.
The atmosphere in the private study was suffocatingly heavy, the air thick with the scent of burning cedar and unresolved resentment.
Rain lashed against the towering arched windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the expensive imported rugs that covered the floor.
Those rugs, like everything else in the room, had been salvaged from the auction block by Megan’s enormous dowry.
She was a wealthy merchant’s daughter, carrying the colossal shipping fortune that had saved his crumbling estate from total ruin.
Greg leaned forward, tapping a long pale finger against the signature line of the divorce contract.
He stated that his solicitors had drawn up the papers for a quiet annulment, citing irreconcilable differences.
He informed her she would be provided with a generous stipend and a modest estate in the country, keeping the title of dowager if she wished.
He wanted it over, and he braced himself for the inevitable storm he assumed was coming.
In his world, women wielded tears like weapons, using hysterics to manipulate their husbands.
He fully expected Megan to weep, to throw herself at his feet, and to remind him of the sacred vows they had spoken before the archbishop.
He anticipated a desperate plea for her social standing, a pathetic display that would validate his decision to leave her.
Instead, Megan simply looked at him, her striking sea-gray eyes entirely clear and devoid of moisture.
For four years, she had endured a marriage built on a foundation of ice, treated like an unwanted guest in her own home.
Greg had hated her for her money, resenting the necessity of her presence and the fact that he had been forced to abandon his paramour, Heather.
He made his disdain known in a thousand quiet, agonizing ways, taking his meals at his club and spending his evenings at the opera with his mistress.
He flaunted his infidelity before high society, speaking to Megan only when absolutely necessary.
Through it all, Megan had borne the humiliation with silent, stoic grace, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her tears.
She managed his crumbling estates, balanced his disastrous ledgers, and played the perfect, unbothered hostess.
A naive, foolish part of her had once believed her devotion could thaw the ruthless Duke, but looking at the papers, she felt only exhaustion.
The love had burned out completely, leaving nothing but fine gray ash in its wake.
Megan asked if he was doing this for Heather, her steady alto voice barely disturbing the quiet of the room.
Greg’s jaw tightened as he coldly confirmed that he and Heather had an understanding, reminding Megan that she was not of his world.
He claimed the charade had gone on long enough, stating that he wanted his life back.
Megan softly repeated the phrase, looking around the opulent study at the gilded mirrors, the rows of leather-bound first editions, and the priceless classic portraits.
She had paid for his life, single-handedly pulling his family out of the financial abyss they had dug for themselves.
She reached out across the mahogany desk, her slender fingers bypassing the small fortune in hush money detailed in the contract.
She moved straight for the heavy silver-plumed fountain pen resting in its stand.
Greg blinked, caught off guard, advising her to read the terms and assuring her the Yorkshire property was comfortable.
Megan interrupted, her tone polite but entirely detached, stating that the allowance was fine.
She unscrewed the cap of the pen, the nib hovering over the parchment as Greg watched in genuine confusion.
He asked if she was going to consult her father’s solicitors, shocked that she wasn’t going to contest the grounds.
Megan didn’t look up, replying that if Heather wished to take on the burden of his debts and his cruelty, she was welcome to them both.
Before Greg could process the stinging rebuke, Megan pressed the pen to the paper, the scratching sound loud in the silent room.
She signed her maiden name on the first line, explicitly rejecting the title he was so proud of.
She flipped to the second page, signing again with elegant, unflinching precision.
It took less than thirty seconds to completely dissolve their marriage.
When she was finished, she carefully capped the pen and placed it parallel to the documents, standing up and smoothing her dove-gray gown.
She informed him she would have her maid pack her things immediately, declining the remote estate and the stipend.
She told him she had her own accounts and suggested he invest her massive dowry wisely, since Heather had notoriously expensive tastes.
Greg stood frozen, staring at the freshly drying ink on the parchment, the immediate bloodless surrender feeling inexplicably like a defeat.
He managed to ask if she was leaving tonight, his voice lacking its usual commanding edge.
Megan replied that there was nothing keeping her there for another dawn, walking toward the heavy oak doors.
She paused just before grasping the brass handle, turning her head to look back at the man who had been the center of her universe.
She wished him luck finding whatever he was looking for, telling him she suspected it was never actually her.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Greg alone in the vast, silent study.
The divorce papers sat on his desk like a loaded weapon he had fired without aiming.
He looked down at her signature, feeling a sudden, inexplicable tightening in his chest that he ruthlessly pushed down.
He told himself he was free to marry Heather, but the study suddenly felt incredibly cold.
The rain continued to batter the cobblestones of the square as Megan walked up the sweeping marble staircase for the last time.
She moved with purpose, avoiding the gaze of the footmen whose eyes were wide with unspoken questions.
Word had already begun to spread through the servants’ quarters that the duke had summoned his solicitors and the duchess was packing.
In her grand bedchamber, an opulent room of rose silk and gilded mirrors, her lady’s maid was weeping silently into a lace handkerchief.
Megan gently told her to stop crying, noting that tears were a waste of water and they had much to do.
The maid sniffled, protesting that it wasn’t right to be turned out in the night.
Megan corrected her, stating she was not being turned out, but rather leaving of her own accord.
She announced they were going to her mother’s old coastal cottage on the coast, a secluded property that belonged entirely to her.
She pulled open the heavy doors of the mahogany wardrobe, ignoring the lavish silks and velvet riding habits Greg’s accountants had insisted she buy.
She left them all behind, packing only her simplest muslin dresses, sensible wool cloaks, and sturdy walking boots.
She moved to the vanity table, staring at the breathtaking set of diamonds and sapphires that had been in Greg’s family for generations.
Beside the necklace sat her engagement ring, a massive diamond that had felt like a shackle since the day he coldly slid it on her finger.
She pulled it off, the metal feeling cold against her skin, and placed it deliberately in the center of the velvet box.
She took nothing but her mother’s simple gold locket and the pearl earrings her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday.
Downstairs, the atmosphere was chaotic, the stern and fiercely loyal butler, Brian, standing in the grand foyer with a mask of restrained fury.
Beside him, the housekeeper was openly wringing her hands, tears spilling over her wrinkled cheeks.
When Megan descended the stairs dressed in a dark traveling cloak, the entire staff had gathered in a silent vigil.
Over fifty men and women stood in the hall, mourning the departure of the only person who had actually cared for the estate.
Brian executed a bow far deeper than protocol required, his voice trembling as he assured her the carriage was prepared.
Megan thanked him warmly, asking him to give the ledgers to the accountant and reminding the new mistress about the leaking roof.
The housekeeper blurted out that Megan had saved the family and they didn’t deserve her.
Megan offered a sad, fleeting smile, advising them to take care of themselves.
Without looking back, she walked out into the pouring rain, stepping into the waiting carriage.
The driver cracked his whip, and the heavy wheels rolled over the wet cobblestones, carrying Megan away from the nightmare.
The next morning, Greg woke with a sense of bizarre disorientation, the storm having broken to leave a pale, washed-out sky.
He dressed in his usual meticulous manner, expecting the day to proceed as it always did.
He walked down to the breakfast room, expecting to see Megan sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table.
Instead, the table was set for one, the absolute emptiness of the room jarring his senses.
He asked Brian where the Duchess was, picking up the morning paper to hide his unease.
Brian stood rigidly by the sideboard, his expression colder than the morning frost as he reported she had departed the previous night.
He added with a touch of venom that she had left her wedding band on her vanity alongside the family diamonds.
Greg stared at his empty teacup, unnerved by the absolute swiftness of her departure and the total lack of resistance.
By noon, the reality of Megan’s absence began to sink into the very walls of the house.
Heather arrived precisely at two o’clock, sweeping into the foyer in a flurry of rose-scented perfume and a garish emerald-green dress.
She threw her arms around Greg’s neck, laughing brightly as she celebrated the news that the “little mouse” had scurried away.
Greg forced a smile, though the shrill pitch of her voice set his teeth on edge in a way it never had before.
Heather immediately began issuing orders, demanding the rose silk drapes be taken down and replaced with French blue.
She demanded Assam tea, complaining about the Earl Grey Megan had always served.
Brian coldly informed her that the interior decorators would need to be consulted, and that Megan had personally blended the Assam herself.
Heather scowled, calling the staff appallingly insolent and demanding Greg do something about it.
Greg rubbed his temples, a sudden headache blooming behind his eyes as he looked at the woman he had destroyed his marriage for.
He expected to feel a rush of passion and relief, but instead, he just felt bone-deep exhaustion.
The house felt dead; impeccably clean and perfectly organized, yet entirely hollow without Megan’s quiet presence.
As the days bled into weeks, the true magnitude of Megan’s silent labor became glaringly apparent.
Six months passed, and in the quiet, rolling green hills of the countryside, Megan was completely reborn.
She lived comfortably in her sprawling ivy-covered stone manor overlooking the dramatic cliffs of the coast.
The fresh salt air had brought the color back to her cheeks, and the absence of Greg’s suffocating disdain had allowed her spirit to uncoil.
Utilizing her sharp mind and her vast fortune, she had quietly purchased controlling shares in several regional textile mills.
Every morning, she rode out on a spirited roan mare, her dark hair flying free in the wind.
Negotiating contracts with merchants and overseeing working conditions filled her busy afternoons, punctuated by easy laughter with the locals who absolutely adored her.
Evenings were spent baking bread in her own kitchens before falling into a deep, sound sleep, rarely sparing a thought for the Duke.
Free and powerful, Megan was building an empire that was entirely her own.
In stark contrast, Greg’s life in London was rapidly disintegrating into a chaotic, terrifying nightmare.
The transition from Megan to Heather had been nothing short of a disaster for the entire estate.
Heather was entirely decorative, possessing no interest in managing a household of fifty servants or budgeting their expenses.
She alienated the housekeeper, drove the head chef to resign by throwing a wine glass at his head, and offended their social circle.
Worse, Greg’s finances were spiraling violently out of control, threatening to collapse the entire dukedom.
One rainy Tuesday, Greg sat in his study, staring at a mountain of past-due bills from tailors, jewelers, and carriage makers.
He summoned his head accountant, demanding to know how they were suddenly so deeply in the red.
The nervous accountant swallowed hard, explaining that the estate’s income barely covered the interest on Greg’s late father’s debts.
Greg frowned, insisting that couldn’t be right since Megan had handled the ledgers perfectly for four years.
The accountant looked down at his shoes, whispering the devastating truth that Megan had been paying the interest out of her personal dividends.
She had privately funded Greg’s younger brother’s tuition at Oxford and paid off his gambling debts to prevent a scandal.
She paid for the new roof on the summer home, the pension for the stablemaster, and the repairs to the family silver.
Greg froze, the air in his lungs seeming to vanish as the crushing reality hit him like a physical blow.
She had sworn the accountant to secrecy, stating she didn’t want her wealth to make Greg feel emasculated.
Megan hadn’t just bought his title; she had spent four years silently holding up the pillars of his crumbling world.
She had protected his pride and his family, acting as a shield of pure steel while he treated her with absolute contempt.
A wave of nausea washed over him as he ordered the accountant out of the room, his voice choking in his throat.
Alone in the study, Greg began tearing through the drawers of the mahogany desk, searching frantically for anything she had left behind.
He found an old leather-bound ledger stuffed in the very back of the bottom drawer, filled with her crisp, neat handwriting.
Page after page detailed her quiet sacrifices, transferring money to save his brother, paying for the cook’s ailing daughter, and covering his extravagant lifestyle.
He read an entry from Christmas Eve, noting that while he attended a gala with Heather, Megan stayed home and bought him the hunting rifles he admired.
She had the butler say they were from his brother, ensuring he got the gift without the guilt of knowing it came from the wife he despised.
Greg’s hands shook violently, a single hot tear betraying him and falling onto the heavy parchment.
He had been a blind, arrogant fool, trading a priceless diamond for a piece of cheap, glittering glass.
The door to the study burst open, shattering the heavy silence as Heather stormed in, her face flushed with fury.
She slammed a crumpled letter onto the desk, shrieking that Greg needed to do something about her cousin, who was threatening to cut off her allowance.
Greg slowly looked up, his eyes hollow and deadened by the sudden, crushing weight of his own profound stupidity.
He looked at the selfish petulance in her eyes, the hard avaricious line of her mouth, and asked why her cousin was providing an allowance.
Heather hesitated, a flicker of genuine panic crossing her beautiful features as she stammered that it was complicated.
She claimed her cousin held the purse strings until she remarried, immediately pivoting to ask when they were announcing their engagement.
Greg stood up, picking up a stack of letters that had arrived in the morning post, breaking the seal on a report from a private investigator.
He scanned the contents, his blood running ice cold as he read the devastating truth aloud.
The report stated that Heather was not a widow at all; her husband, a minor French count, was very much alive in an asylum in Paris.
She had been heavily subsidizing his care using regular payments from Greg’s own accounts, forging his signature to authorize the transfers.
Heather went completely pale, reaching out and begging him to let her explain the situation.
Greg’s voice was dangerously low as he ordered her to get out of his house immediately.
When she protested, he roared at her, his voice shaking the glass in the window panes as he threatened to have the butler throw her into the street.
Terrified by the feral, broken look in his eyes, Heather turned and fled the room, leaving him alone in the ruins of his life.
Greg collapsed back into his leather chair, burying his face in his hands as the silence of the house returned.
It was no longer peaceful; it was deafening, the absolute sound of Megan’s absence echoing in his ears.
He knew he had to find her, not caring if she hated him or threw him out of her home.
He rang the bell for Brian, commanding the butler to pack his bags and saddle his fastest horse.
He demanded the address of Megan’s solicitors, declaring he was leaving for her estate immediately.
He rode for three days straight, changing horses at every post inn, sleeping only in snatching, exhausted intervals.
The immaculate duke was gone, replaced by a mud-splattered, desperate man with a heavy shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
When he finally breached the crest of the Mendip Hills, he pulled his exhausted stallion to a halt, looking down at the thriving estate.
Smoke plumed from the chimneys of a nearby textile mill, and the harbor was bustling with men loading heavy crates onto sleek merchant clippers.
He rode down into the valley, his chest tight with a sickening mixture of hope and overwhelming dread.
He asked a local blacksmith for directions, directed toward the bustling docks where she was negotiating with London bankers.
The salt air whipped at his face as he navigated through the labyrinth of wooden crates and coiled ropes.
He heard her laugh, a rich, melodic sound entirely uninhibited and full of genuine joy that he had never heard in his own home.
He turned the corner and froze, seeing Megan standing on the wooden pier flanked by two formidable-looking gentlemen in dark city suits.
She wore a tailored riding habit of deep navy wool, entirely unadorned by jewels, yet she commanded the space like an empress holding court.
Her dark hair was loosely braided, a few rebellious strands blowing across her flushed, radiant cheeks.
One of the men, Tyler, a senior partner at a highly influential private bank, was smiling warmly at her.
He chuckled, shaking his head and admitting she drove a harder bargain than the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Megan replied with quiet confidence, stating she only asked for what her assets were worth, as her ships never lost cargo to the Atlantic storms.
Tyler agreed, taking her gloved hand and bowing over it, promising to finalize the drafts by Tuesday.
As the bankers turned to walk toward their carriage, the crowd of dock workers parted, and Megan turned to face the docks.
The smile vanished instantly from her lips, replaced by a mask of polite, impenetrable frost as she spotted Greg.
He stood ten paces away, looking like a ghost dragged from the Thames, taking a hesitant step forward into the mud.
He breathed her name, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue, a sacred thing he had no right to speak.
She didn’t flinch or gasp; she simply looked at him, her sea-gray eyes sweeping over his disheveled appearance with mild clinical interest.
She greeted him formally, her tone as level as a placid lake, asking to what she owed the disruption of her workday.
The formality of her tone was a physical blow, and he closed the distance between them as the dock workers watched in tense silence.
He told her he had ridden from London because he had to speak with her, his voice cracking with desperation.
Megan smoothly turned to pick up a leather-bound ledger, stating they had nothing to speak of.
She assumed he was there about the alimony, assuring him she hadn’t touched a penny and he could redirect it back to his accounts.
Greg stepped closer, pleading that it wasn’t about the money and begging her to look at him.
She sighed, a tiny sound of profound irritation, and turned to face him, noting clinically that he looked terrible.
He whispered that he had lost her, the truth of the words burning like acid in his throat.
Megan let out a short, humorless breath, pointing out that he couldn’t lose something he had willingly thrown away.
She tried to step past him, stating she had a shipment of wool bound for Amsterdam that required her inspection.
Greg’s desperation finally snapped, and he reached out, catching her wrist to stop her from walking away.
The moment his fingers brushed her wool sleeve, she went rigidly still, her eyes snapping up to his, blazing with a fierce anger he had never seen.
She commanded him to unhand her, the authority in her voice so absolute that he instantly dropped his hand, stepping back as if burned.
He apologized frantically, looking around at the dozens of rough-hewn sailors and mill workers watching them closely.
In the past, his aristocratic pride would have demanded he drag her into a private room away from the prying eyes of the lower classes.
But pride had left him entirely hollow, leaving him with an empty house and a mountain of terrifying lies.
Slowly, deliberately, Greg lowered himself to the ground, his knees hitting the wet, filthy mud of the pier.
The dock workers gasped, a murmur of shock rippling through the crowd as the duke knelt in the dirt.
Megan stared down at him, her expression completely unreadable as he ignored the cold slime soaking through his trousers.
“I was a fool,” he gasped, his hands digging into the filthy mud.
“Blind, arrogant, and vicious.
I blamed you for the sins of my own ruined family.”
His voice broke as he looked up at her, raindrops streaking his pale face.
“I resented your grace because it only highlighted my own cruelty.”
“I found your private ledgers,” he choked out, his chest heaving with desperate breaths.
“I saw everything you did for my brother, the estate, and for me.”
Megan coldly replied that those ledgers were private, refusing to offer him an inch of comfort.
Greg’s voice grew thick with unshed tears as he called them a mirror that showed him what a monster he had been.
He revealed that Heather had forged his name, stolen from the estate, and was entirely ruined, and that he had thrown her out.
“I’m throwing it all out!” he cried, gripping the edge of her hem with muddy fingers.
“I don’t care about the title, the society balls, or the London season.”
“I only care that I woke up in a world where you are no longer mine, and I cannot survive in it.”
He bowed his head, the drizzling rain slicking his dark hair to his forehead.
“Please, come back to me.”
“Punish me, hate me, force me to sleep in the stables!” he begged, his voice raw.
“Just give me a chance to earn your forgiveness.”
The silence that followed his confession was absolute, the wind seeming to hold its breath as the gulls above stopped crying.
He waited for her gentle heart to yield as it always had, desperate for a single shred of salvation.
Megan finally spoke, her voice neither angry nor kind, but simply incredibly tired, commanding him to stand up.
He slowly rose to his feet, mud dripping from his breeches, his eyes silently pleading with hers.
She clutched her ledger to her chest, telling him he misunderstood the situation entirely.
He clearly believed he was there to offer her a choice, expecting gratitude now that he finally realized her worth.
Instead of an apology, he simply assumed she would pack her bags, return to a house that suffocated her, and spend the rest of her life healing his wounds.
Greg shook his head frantically, promising he would be the one to heal her and make things right every single day.
Megan’s voice hardened as she stated he could not make it right, because he had broken something fundamental inside her.
For four years, she had poured her soul into a bottomless well of his disdain, truly loving him despite his cruelty.
She told him he had killed that love slowly and methodically, day by agonizing day, extinguishing any light she held for him.
When he tried to interrupt, the sheer command in her voice silenced him instantly.
She took a step closer, her gray eyes locking onto his with terrifying clarity.
She noted that he claimed Heather had ruined him and stolen from the estate, asking if the accountant had shown him the rest of the accounts.
Greg frowned in confusion, asking what she meant, stating he had only seen the debts and the mortgages on the London townhouse.
Megan softly asked who he thought had bought those mortgages, her words hanging in the damp air.
Greg froze, the blood draining entirely from his face as the terrifying reality began to dawn on him.
Megan explained with a methodical, business-like tone that when she left, she knew Heather’s spending habits would bleed him dry within a year.
She went to Tyler’s bank, using the capital from her shipping fleets to quietly purchase every single promissory note and mortgage.
She had bought every outstanding debt the estate had accumulated over the last six months.
Greg couldn’t breathe, the ground beneath his feet feeling as if it were crumbling into the sea.
He stammered, realizing aloud that she owned his debts, his voice barely a whisper in the wind.
Megan gently corrected him, stating she owned the London townhouse, the hunting lodge in Scotland, the carriages, and the silver he ate from.
She reminded him he had thrown her out because he couldn’t stand being beholden to a commoner’s money.
She made sure that the moment he signed those divorce papers, he became entirely, legally beholden to her.
The twist of the knife was exquisite, delivered without an ounce of malice, but with the cold, hard precision of a master strategist.
She hadn’t just survived his relentless cruelty; she had systematically checkmated him.
Shattered completely, Greg whispered a desperate question, asking why she didn’t just let the banks foreclose if she hated him so much.
A genuine flicker of sadness crossed Megan’s features as she explained she didn’t want to see the family name dragged through the mud.
She didn’t want his brother to lose his inheritance because of Greg’s profound blindness.
She protected his family because it was once her family too, but she made it very clear she did not do it for him.
She turned away, looking out at the crashing waves of the channel, radiating a quiet, terrifying calm.
She told him she was not coming back to London, because she was no longer his wife; she was his creditor.
She ordered him to return to his estate, live quietly, manage the tenant farms, and send the yields to the bank to pay down his massive debts.
If he did this faithfully, he could keep the house, but if he failed, she promised to foreclose and leave him with absolutely nothing.
Greg stood in the mud, entirely destroyed, looking at the brilliant, ruthless woman he had cast aside.
He slumped against a wooden piling, watching as dockworkers parted respectfully to let her pass, his ruined clothes a stark contrast to her undeniable command of the chaotic wharf.
He choked out that he loved her, the words tearing from his throat for the first time in their entire relationship.
They felt like ash in his mouth, completely useless and arriving far too late to matter.
Megan looked over her shoulder, her profile sharp and lovely against the gray sky, and quietly replied that she knew.
She told him he would have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.
Without another word, Megan turned and walked away, disappearing into the bustling crowd of the docks.
She left the duke completely alone on his knees, surrounded by the ruins of his own making.
He had nothing left but the agonizing ghosts of what could have been to keep him company.
THE END
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.
If you enjoyed this story, read this one: My Husband Divorced Me For Being Barren — Three Years Later He Saw My Son’s Eyes
Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
