The Billionaire's Roadkill Wife - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

I crumpled into her embrace, my body shaking with uncontrollable sobs—a decade's worth of grief, exhaustion, and heartache pouring out in an unstoppable flood of tears.
And then, when there were no tears left to cry, something shifted. The weight on my chest eased. My breathing steadied.
The past couldn't be undone.
But at least—bruised and battered as I was—I had clawed my way out of that gilded cage.
I refused to drown in despair.
Back in my hometown, I gave my mother a quiet, dignified funeral, laying her to rest beside my father. The neighbors, warm and generous, stepped in without hesitation—helping with every small detail, their kindness softening the edges of my grief.
I decided to stay.
With my credentials, securing a teaching position at the local school was easy. Most of my colleagues were fresh-faced graduates, bright and full of life—around Lily Patricia's age, but so different from her. They laughed freely, dragged me out for coffee, filled my days with simple, joyful moments. For the first time in years, I breathed easy.
Then—Jonathan appeared.
The sharp stench of alcohol hit me before I even saw him. I turned to leave, but he stepped into my path, his eyes burning with something I couldn't—or didn't want to—recognize.
"Zara, I missed you."
I met his gaze, my expression blank, my pulse steady. "Jonathan. We're divorced."
He shook his head violently, thrusting a familiar ring between us.
"I don't accept it. I can't—I can't live without you." His voice cracked. "Since you left, I've been losing my mind. I never told you the truth, but I loved you—completely. Those early days with you were the happiest I've ever been. I thought… I finally had a home. But then—"
He swallowed hard, still blocking my escape. "That contract you signed with my grandfather—it destroyed me. I couldn't accept that the woman I loved had an agenda. I wanted to punish you. That's why I… did all those things."
Tears streaked his face, as if he were the victim here.
I didn't flinch. "Do you remember our wedding anniversary?"
He froze. His mouth opened—then closed. Nothing came out.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped me. "I remember. I'll never forget. Because that's the day your mistress told me she first slept with you—on our wedding night."
That woman—the one Jonathan had insisted be our bridesmaid. His "distant cousin."
She'd confessed everything to me not long after the wedding. But Jonathan had discarded her too, once someone new caught his eye. She'd been cast aside before I was.
Silence. His guilt trapped him. But he'd spent years mistaking my endurance for weakness—thinking a few pretty words could undo a decade of betrayal.
After that, the gifts started arriving. Flowers. Jewelry. Grand, empty gestures, as if we were still newlyweds.
But I wasn't that girl anymore.
And I wasn't fool enough to fall for the same lie twice.