I Tricked My CEO Husband into Signing the Divorce

My husband, Lucas—the heir to a tech empire—stole the one chance I’d waited five years for to become chief investigative reporter, and handed it to his “first love,” Sophia Ross.

During four years of a secret marriage, my career and my feelings always came after the things that “mattered more.”

When he picked Sophia up in his arms in front of everyone yet again, I ended it—with a divorce petition disguised as a budget sheet.

The next day, I boarded a plane bound for the Eastern European war zone.

Later, when he fought through half a world of smoke and fire and found me among the ruins,

my eyes held nothing but the calm of battlefield wind and snow.

……

……

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the law firm, my fingertip tracing the edge of the document.

“Ms. Cole, are you sure you want to do this?” My attorney, Mr. Lawrence, pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. “This is the Godfather we’re talking about.”

I turned to look at him. “I’m twenty-six, Lawrence. And when I sign this, I’ll be clearer-headed than I’ve been at any moment in the last four years of my marriage.”

Outside the window, Manhattan’s skyline glittered.

Four years ago, when I came to this city from Boston, I thought I’d be living a completely different life—a successful career in news, a marriage built on mutual respect. At least the second part, in theory, came true. I married Lucas Cole, heir to the Cole tech empire. We kept it secret, because he said, “It’s best for the company’s image.”

Looking back now, that was probably the first warning.

“He’ll sign,” I said. “He never reads anything I give him carefully.”

Lawrence let out a sigh. “You still have three days to reconsider.”

“I don’t need three days.” I put the papers away. “Not after he handed the exclusive interview that should’ve been mine… to his first love, Sophia Ross.”

*

By the time I returned to the penthouse apartment on the top floor of Cole Tower, it was already evening.

Lucas was home, which was rare. Rarer still—Sophia was there too. She sat across from my husband, holding the bone-china teacup set I’d brought back from Paris—the one Lucas once called “an overly delicate little trinket.”

“Isabella.” Lucas didn’t even look up. His eyes stayed on the tablet in his hands. “Sophia’s apartment is being renovated. She’ll stay in the guest room for a few weeks.”

Sophia smiled at me, a smile so perfect it looked rehearsed. “I hope I won’t be a bother. Luca said you have plenty of empty rooms here.”

“Luca.” She always called him that—his college nickname, she said she couldn’t break the habit.

“Of course not,” I heard myself say, frighteningly calm. “Do you need me to ask the butler to prepare anything?”

“No need.” Lucas finally glanced at me, the usual evaluative sweep. “Where have you been?”

“The station.” I headed toward the study. “I have some paperwork to deal with.”

“More of those reports?” Sophia’s voice carried the perfect amount of curiosity. “Luca said you’re fighting for prime time? I really admire your persistence. But times have changed—viewers like in-depth profile interviews now, like… business leaders.”

I stopped at the study door.

Lucas’s voice came from behind me. “Sophia just landed an exclusive with the CEO of Wicks Energy. Her team did a good job.”

Wicks Energy. The door I’d been beating on for three months without getting it to crack.

“Congratulations,” I said, and closed the door.

*

The divorce petition sat inside my briefcase. I pulled it out and laid it on my desk beside the station’s standard budget request form.

The paper was identical. The header font matched. Even the footer formatting was almost perfect.

Lawrence was right—this was insane. But a crazy marriage sometimes needs a crazy ending.

When I walked back out holding both documents, Sophia was showing Lucas her interview outline. They were sitting close enough that her hair almost brushed his shoulder.

“Lucas,” I cut in, “there’s a document I need you to sign.”

He frowned. “Now?”

“It’s the station’s budget process. The deadline is tonight.” I handed him the divorce petition, my finger resting just above the small print that read “Dissolution of Marriage.” “Just sign on the dotted line.”

Sophia let out a soft laugh. “Your station’s admin work is such a hassle. Luca, that sponsorship agreement of mine—you still haven’t—”

“Soon,” Lucas said.

He took the pen and didn’t even look at the first page. His eyes were still on Sophia’s tablet. The tip glided across the paper with a smoothness that made my stomach turn.

Just like the past four years. Everything I handed him—dinner invitations, anniversary reminders, conversations about my work—always got interrupted by something “more important.”

And everything Sophia asked for was always handled “soon.”

The pen stopped. He was done.

“There.” He handed the papers back to me and finally looked up. “You don’t look great. If you’re tired, go rest early.”

Sophia stood. “I’ll make coffee. Luca, I brought the beans you like, remember? In college you always said only mine tasted right.”

They walked into the kitchen together.

I stayed where I was, staring at the familiar signature on the last page.

Lucas J. Cole.

Four years ago, I’d seen the same handwriting on our marriage certificate. Back then I thought this name would be my shelter for the rest of my life.

Now it felt like an epitaph on a tombstone.

“Lucas,” I said aloud.

He turned back at the kitchen door.

“Nothing.” I hugged the papers to my chest. “Good night.”

“Good night, Isabella.”

The door shut. I slid down the cold wall onto the carpet, my fingertips rubbing over the texture of the paper.

Step one was done—the easiest step, and the hardest.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Chloe—my only coworker at the station who knew I was married, and my friend.

“How did it go?” she texted. “Did he sign?”

I stared at the light leaking through the crack under the kitchen door and listened to Sophia’s laughter.

“He signed,” I replied. “I’ll file it with the court in three days.”

“Oh my God. You’re really doing this?”

“Chloe,” I typed slowly, “do you know what he praised Sophia for today? She convinced Wicks Energy’s CEO to do an exclusive. I submitted the same pitch three months ago, and he said, ‘That kind of soft-profile interview won’t actually help the station’s ratings.’”

The chat showed “typing…” for a long time.

Finally, one message arrived: “I’m downstairs. Do you need alcohol, or do you need someone to help you smash things?”

I laughed—my first genuine laugh in four years.

“Both,” I replied. “But first, do me a favor—find out whether the Eastern European war zone still needs field correspondents.”