Too Late, Mr. Billionaire: Watch Me Shine

I spent a whole year trying to melt my billionaire husband's icy heart, carefully planning our grand wedding reception.

Then a trending news alert popped up: Augustine was spotted at the airport, intimately holding his childhood sweetheart, Bianca.

When I frantically called him, he declined it and sent a cold text.

"Don't call."

At the family estate, he didn't even acknowledge my existence. Instead, he announced that our wedding reception was canceled.

"Bianca and I discussed it," he stated flatly, as if she were the real wife.

His aristocratic family just sneered at me. His aunt called me a classless gold digger, and his grandmother demanded I endure the humiliation to protect their public image.

They even moved Bianca into our penthouse, redecorating the suite for her while I was barred from his office.

For a year, I gave up my career and dreams, desperately molding myself into the perfect Mrs. Rhodes.

I thought my devotion would eventually earn his respect, but to them, I was just a pathetic, temporary replacement keeping the seat warm.

When I saw he had completely blocked me on social media, erasing me with a single click, my heart finally died.

I didn't cry or beg for his affection anymore.

I packed my bags, walked out of that suffocating gilded cage, and sent him a simple text.

"Let's get a divorce."

I am done playing the tragic clown. This time, I'm taking my life back.