My Billionaire Husband Was Faking It Too

Evelyn's POV

The lawyer's voice is coming through water. "Sign here, Mrs. Sterling."

My fingers tremble around the pen. The tip hovers above the signature line, refusing to land. Sunlight cuts through the floor-to-ceiling windows and hits the documents, lighting up those black letters: "Dissolution of Marriage."

Three years. Three years of being Mrs. Sterling, and it all comes down to this stack of papers and a five-million-dollar check. Money I never wanted.

"Mrs. Sterling?" The lawyer sounds professionally warm. "Do you need me to explain the terms again?"

"No. I understand."

But what do I really understand? That this is the ending we agreed on three years ago. That I should be grateful Alexander Sterling is keeping his promise, giving me a dignified exit.

The pen finally touches paper. As I sign "Evelyn Brooks Sterling," another moment flashes back. Same office, three years ago. Two strangers signing a prenup like robots. No flowers. No vows. Just our grandfathers' photos in the corner like silent witnesses.

Alexander had said, "Three years. We maintain appearances and live independently. After that, we part ways peacefully."

His voice was calm, like reading a business contract aloud.

I'd said, "Okay."

The last letter is done. This might be the last time I use his last name.

The lawyer nods, satisfied, and collects the documents. When I stand, my legs feel weak.

Outside the law office, Manhattan sunlight is so sharp it makes me want to cry. I don't call the driver. Thirty blocks home. I need time to get my head straight.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I don't look.

Passing Central Park, my feet slow without permission. That bench is still there. Where we had our first "date," though it wasn't really a date back then. A couple is making out on it now. The girl laughs loud and bright.

I think about the night Grandpa Jack died two years ago.

Alexander stayed with me for two straight weeks. He didn't say much. Just sat on the couch outside my door every night, like he was afraid I'd do something stupid. One morning I woke up to find cinnamon rolls on the counter. My comfort food. How did he even know?

I thought that meant something.

But the next day he was back to polite and distant, like that gentleness had never existed.

My phone buzzes again. This time I pull it out.

Sophie: "Ev! Want to come over tonight? I made your favorite lasagna!"

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to say yes. But tonight I need to go home. Our apartment. In six months, it won't be "ours" anymore.

Me: "Rain check? I'm kind of tired today."

I put the phone away and look up. Our building stands right in front of me.

When I push the door open, garlic and basil hit me in the face. I freeze in the doorway.

Alexander stands at the stove in the open kitchen. His suit jacket is draped over a bar stool. White shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He's concentrating on tossing pasta in a pan. Sunset light pours through the windows, coating him in gold.

God. He's beautiful. And completely, utterly, unreachably mine but not mine.

"You're home." He doesn't turn around. "There's dinner on the table."

Not "I made you dinner." Never that. Always these carefully neutral phrases, keeping us safely in our separate corners.

"Thanks." I try to sound normal. "You didn't have to."

"It's no trouble." He finally turns to look at me.

Our eyes meet. The moment lasts too long.

Something flashes in his gray-blue eyes. Concern? Curiosity? Or am I reading into nothing again?

I look away first. Like always.

I set my bag down and walk to the table. He turns back to the stove, his movements carrying some kind of tension.

Two plates sit on the table. Pasta with simple salad. Napkins folded neatly. A glass of ice water at exactly the temperature I like.

He remembers. He always remembers these small things. But what does that prove?

We sit across from each other. Forks against porcelain sound too loud in the silence. Alexander cuts his salad with surgical precision. I twirl pasta onto my fork and put it in my mouth. It tastes good, but I'm not really tasting anything.

"The lawyer contacted me today." I finally break the silence.

His fork freezes mid-air. "I see."

"We should probably discuss logistics. For when the contract ends."

When the contract ends. Like our marriage is just another business deal with termination clauses. Technically, it is.

But somewhere between year one and year three, for me, it stopped being business.

"We have time." His voice is rougher than expected. "Six months."

"Right. Six months."

I want to ask: Unless you want to end it early? Unless you've met someone? Unless you're as tired of this performance as I am? But I don't. Because asking means facing answers I can't handle.

"I have to go to Boston next week." He suddenly speaks. "Three days."

My fork almost drops. "Okay." Too fast.

'Please don't go. Or take me with you. Or tell me why you're leaving.'

"It's just a board meeting." He looks at me. "Nothing important."

Nothing important. So he doesn't need me there. So I'm not important enough to know details.

"I understand."

We fall into silence again. He stares at his plate. I stare at the night view. Manhattan lights turn on one by one, like stars falling to earth.

Grandpa said if you really love someone, city lights look different. He was right. Since I fell for Alexander, every light in this city reminds me how badly I want to stay.

Dinner is almost over when I can't hold back anymore. "Three days." I try to sound casual. "So you'll be back Friday?"

Alexander looks up. "Planning to miss me?"

His tone is joking, but his eyes are searching. My heart pounds hard.

'Every single day. I miss you even when you're sitting right across from me.'

"Just wondering if I need to save you dinner." I force a smile.

The light in his eyes dims, so fast you'd miss it if you weren't staring.

"Don't bother. I can take care of myself."

Of course. He can always take care of himself. He doesn't need anyone. Especially not me.

I stand up and start clearing the plates. He stands too. "I'll clean up. You look tired."

"I'm fine."

"Evelyn—"

I turn to look at him. He hesitates, Adam's apple moving. For a moment I think he's going to say something. Something that could change everything.

"Good night."

"Good night, Alexander."

I turn toward my bedroom. Before closing the door, I glance back. He stands in the kitchen, his back somehow looking lonely. I close the door.

Next morning, Alexander sits in his office, staring at documents but not reading a single word. He barely slept last night. Every time he heard footsteps in the hallway, he thought Evelyn was coming out of her room. But she never did.

Marcus knocks and pushes the door open. "Mr. Sterling, the board materials need your signature."

Alexander takes the documents and signs mechanically. Marcus stands across the desk, clearly wanting to say something.

"Also, Mrs. Sterling's birthday is next Wednesday. Should I arrange anything?"

Alexander's pen stops. "She told you?" He looks up, slightly panicked.

"No, sir. I checked her file. I've been reminding you for three years, but you've never—"

"I know when her birthday is." Alexander cuts him off.

Marcus looks at his boss's face, that mix of defensiveness and vulnerability, and sighs internally. This man can dominate board meetings and manage billions, but turns into a confused teenager in front of one woman.

"With respect, sir, knowing and acknowledging are different things. What would you like me to arrange?"

"I'll handle it myself."

Marcus pauses. "Sir, perhaps this year you could tell her directly? Rather than having gifts delivered through me?"

Alexander puts down his pen, takes off his glasses, and rubs his temples. "She'll think it's inappropriate."

"Or she'll think you care."

The office stays quiet for a few seconds.

He does care. He cares so much that every night he has to force himself not to knock on her door and tell her that for three years he's been trying not to fall in love with her and failing spectacularly.

Alexander's phone buzzes on the desk. He glances at the screen. A message from Evelyn.

He opens it and sees a photo. The Met's Ancient Greek sculpture gallery. Sunlight streams through the skylight, falling on a statue of Aphrodite. The photo is beautiful.

A few seconds later, another message comes through.

Evelyn: "Sorry!!! Meant to send to Sophie. Please ignore."

Alexander stares at the photo, corners of his mouth lifting without permission. She's at the museum. She always goes there when she's upset, staring at those ancient sculptures like they hold answers.

Was it last night's conversation? Or the lawyer's documents?

His finger hovers over the keyboard. He wants to reply: "It's beautiful." Or "Are you okay?" Or what he really wants to say: "Don't send it to Sophie. Send it to me."

But he just saves the photo. He adds it to that hidden album, filled with three years of photos about her. Ones he took without her knowing, ones she sent by mistake, any proof that she's real in his life.

Six months. That's all the time he has left to figure out how to tell his wife he's fallen in love with her. His wife, who probably counts down the days until she can be free of him.

"Sir, your mother called. She wants to discuss 'important family matters.'"

Alexander's smile vanishes. That never means anything good.

"I know. Cancel it."