Dear Billionaire, I'm Not Your Wife Anymore! - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

I guessed who was calling and apologized: "I'm sorry, I have more important things to handle."
He wasn't annoyed, just spoke gently and directly: "I've looked into your marriage. Your husband is having an affair, and your daughter isn't close to you either. Actually, you could completely give up your family and devote yourself to research—with your talent, you would certainly achieve great things."
I gripped the phone tighter, my nose tingling, but I still responded calmly: "Thank you for your kindness. I have my own plans."
"Are you trying to win back your husband's heart?" He sighed softly.
"No." I closed my eyes, my voice without hesitation: "I just want to take care of my daughter."
The other end was silent for a second, then said: "Alright, I believe we'll meet again."
"We definitely will." I smiled as I answered him, but quietly called out in my heart—Senior Cole.
Cole Maverick was one of my father's most promising students and had collaborated with him on multiple research projects. Over the years, he had always taken special care of me, like a caring older brother.
I knew he truly meant well. But now, I had more important things to do.
I couldn't lose Mia. I had to win her back—no matter the cost.
I absolutely would not allow that woman Linda to become her "new mother."
That night, I solemnly told my daughter: "Mommy will go abroad with you."
Upon hearing this, Mia was so happy she threw herself into my arms, her little arms hugging my neck tight as she shared with me the places she wanted to visit abroad, the things she wanted to do, chattering nonstop.
Listening to her excited narration, my heart felt both sour and warm.
It turned out that all these years, while I struggled in my marriage, trying to win back a man's heart with humble pleas, I had neglected the person who loved me most—my daughter.
The failed marriage had turned me into a bitter woman and made me forget to love her, to seriously listen to her, to protect her smile.
I touched her soft hair and held her tightly: "Baby, Mommy loves you."
"I love you too, Mommy." She replied softly and sweetly, even giving me a gentle kiss.
"Mommy, you'll always be my best mommy. I don't want to leave you, never ever." She cupped my face with her little hands, her eyes bright and shining.
In that moment, I almost cried.
I lowered my head and kissed her forehead: "Mommy loves you too, forever and always."
Monday, our family headed to the airport.
After an eighteen-hour flight, we finally arrived in Germany. Braden's assistant Neil was pushing the luggage ahead, I carried my bag, my steps somewhat heavy.
Mia had slept too much on the plane and was still drowsily nestled in Braden's arms. He wrapped her in his coat, carefully adjusting his hold, his movements unexpectedly gentle.
I watched him extend his finger to gently brush away the stray hair from Mia's forehead. His gaze was soft—a rare warmth he showed as a father.
I looked away and got into the business car. A convoy of three cars drove into the stormy German night.
I leaned against the car window, watching the blurred streetscape.
Thinking about meeting Olivia and Irena soon, the pressure in my chest unconsciously increased.
Memories from eight years ago surfaced scene by scene.
That year, twenty-year-old Braden was in a car accident and rushed to the hospital where my father worked for emergency treatment.
When I heard about it, I immediately took a leave of absence from school and rushed to the hospital to take care of him. Olivia was too grief-stricken at the time to stop me.
I took on almost all the nursing duties, working day and night, doing everything I could to care for him—not for any particular reason, just because I liked him.
A year later, he woke up.
But what I didn't expect was that the next day, Olivia found me and said calmly but unquestionably: "I can give you a hundred million, as long as you leave my son."
"I never agreed to that marriage arrangement anyway. Facts have proven that you two are indeed incompatible."
I remember crying all night, then quietly starting to pack my things to return to school.
Then, that evening, Braden appeared at my door. He looked somewhat haggard, but his eyes were frighteningly bright.
"Let's get married," he said.
I remember the tone of that proposal—not passionate, not impulsive, but resolute.
Later, on the wedding day, my father's assistant quietly told me—it was my father who had sent Braden the recording of my year-long bedside care.
Only then did I understand that he married me not out of love, but because of that marriage arrangement and gratitude.
And at that time, I foolishly believed that as long as I loved him enough, I would eventually touch his heart.
Unfortunately, nineteen-year-old me was too foolish, too naive.
After nearly an hour's drive, the convoy entered a wealthy villa district in the German suburbs. The cars slowly stopped in front of a brightly lit manor-style villa.
The servants were already waiting at the entrance, ready to take the luggage.
I got out of the car first. When I turned around, I saw Braden holding Mia tightly in his arms, carefully protecting her as they slowly walked down the car steps.