I Dumped My Fake-Poor Billionaire Husband

Chapter 3

The smile froze on Ethan Sinclair's face.

But just as quickly, he composed himself—calm, smug, not a hint of guilt in sight.

So this was who he really was. Not the doting husband I thought I knew, but a cold, arrogant liar who played love like a game.

He let out a scoff. "Wow. Recognized me just from my back? Kinda obsessed, aren't you?"

My whole body went stiff, fury rising in my chest.

"You're disgusting, Ethan. You don't deserve my love. You're nothing but a fraud."

Hands trembling, I yanked the divorce papers from my bag and tossed them at him.

"Sign it."

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. He picked up the papers, flipping through them like he expected some catch.

There wasn't one.

I hadn't asked for a penny.

"You know who I am now," he said slowly, eyeing me. "And you're not asking for alimony?"

I didn't bother responding. He wasn't worth the breath.

"Just sign."

All I wanted was to be free of him—his lies, his manipulations, his entire existence.

Then his phone rang.

He answered with a scowl, and I caught the name that sent ice through my veins.

"Isabella, don't cry. I'm on my way."

He hung up, ripped off his apron, and made for the door.

"Ethan—sign the damn papers," I said through clenched teeth.

"No time."

He didn't even look at me.

Just like that, he was gone.

All for a woman who'd once left him behind—and now had him wrapped around her little finger.

The pain in my chest was sharp, breath-stealing.

But I didn't cry.

Not this time.

Twenty minutes later, I packed up every last thing he owned and dropped it off with the building concierge. I sent him a text: Your stuff's at the front desk. We're finalizing the divorce at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Don't be late.

Back in the apartment, I stood staring at the untouched dinner I'd once poured my heart into.

Then I dumped every dish into the trash.

The next morning at nine, I stood outside the Civil Affairs Bureau.

He didn't show.

Thirty minutes ticked by. Still no Ethan.

I called—no answer.

Texted—nothing.

Then my phone buzzed with a news alert.

Isabella Montgomery suffered a minor concussion last night after being shoved by an overeager fan at an event. Ethan Sinclair reportedly stayed by her side all night.

Photos flooded the feed—him sitting at her bedside, her head resting against his shoulder. Headlines were already branding them the golden couple, meant to be.

He didn't deny a thing. Let the story spread like wildfire.

Never mind the fact that we were still legally married.

She had already left him once, and yet here he was—groveling at her feet all over again.

That evening, I got home from work and froze.

Ethan was sitting on my couch, cool as ever in a tailored suit, like this was his place.

He'd used the spare key he forgot to return.

I walked straight to the door and swung it open. "Out. Now."

He looked up with a sigh. "Audrey, stop being so dramatic."

My tone turned to steel. "Give me the key. You're not welcome here. And this time, don't bail on the divorce."

He stood, all smug confidence, like he still held the upper hand.

"You really thought not asking for money would make me leave you alone?" He smirked. "Come on. That was classic reverse psychology. Admit it—it worked."

He stepped closer, his voice a low drawl, eyes glittering with arrogance.

"Let's be honest, Audrey. A woman like you? You'd never actually walk away from a man like me."

I stared at him—this man who thought he was irresistible, untouchable, God's gift to women.

And for the first time, I didn't feel heartbreak.

I felt nothing but disgust.