Too Late, Billionaire I Already Divorced You

After I got pregnant, something in me came loose.

Every single day I'd text Edwin Vance to ask whether he loved me.

The first ninety-nine times, he answered me gently.

Then came the hundredth.

This time he fired back three lines, his patience gone.

*Marie Pruitt, do you have nothing better to do?*

*The morning sickness is over, the baby's done wearing you out, so now you've moved on to wearing me out?*

*If you've got that kind of time, go look in a mirror and take a good look at that face of yours, it's about as appealing as a slab of grocery-store pork*

I froze.

A second later the messages were unsent, and a voice note popped up in their place.

"Sorry, my junior assistant sent those by mistake just now. Don't take it to heart."

Whether it was a mistake or not didn't matter anymore.

All I knew was that our marriage was finished, completely.