Mrs Reluctant Billionaire

I am stalking my wife. I am cyberstalking her with no intention of stopping. Her figure moves across the screen of my laptop, I follow it with a sad smile making its way to my lips. It still feels so surreal, almost like yesterday when she asked for a divorce with teary eyes. I can still smell her on me, the new shampoo enriched with a mix of unidentified fruits. I never got to ask her the name. The memories wash over me, I slouch in the seat and allow myself to relive them. To feel them like I have done for five years. My eyelids flutter open, it takes a second for me to process the new view, I realise I have been transported back to the mansion, to our room. Back to that day when everything fell apart. “I killed him,” I whispered. I glanced at her pregnant frame seated on the edge of the bed, the thick cover hanging from her chest was the only item of clothing she had on. She stared at me with a lost expression, I squirmed in

Faint giggles pierces through the painful memory, the vision from those days blurs. An acute pain like a knife being twisted in my guts drags me back to the present, my new reality, I suck in a shaky breath, blinking until the haze clears and I remember where I am. What I am doing. What I always do. Stalk her. Hell will be too chill a place for me if she finds out but who will tell her? Not me. I can’t slip up on an act I have had going for nearly five years. I have become a pro at stalking her, a proud one at that. If she wasn’t so stiff, so unresponsive, I wouldn’t have resorted to this. If she had kept to her words and empty promises, we might have worked things out. You are my beginning, my middle, my end. I scoff. Indeed. Your sins are forgivable. You are mine, I will always love you. Right until it was time to prove it. Promises upon promises. All of them, fake and empty. Running a hand over my face, I release my breath sl

By Friday morning, I am still pissed. A tight ball of fury waiting to explode. So when the driver stops me in front of the mansion gate and the twins are not outside waiting for me, I nearly detonate. It takes a strangled sigh, another look at the rearview mirror where my eyes meet with the driver’s to see how red the tips of my ears have turned. And I drum my foot into the car until the tightness in my chest recedes.Retrieving my phone, I double check to see if the text I sent was delivered. No surprises there. I haven’t made that mistake after that tantrum at her school. But my kids are nowhere near. That familiar anger claws at my jaw, I told her I would be here in two minutes and three minutes have passed without them.Today is the first time I have to step out of the car to get them, when my feet meet the ground, a wave of nostalgia hits me. This used to be my home. Our home. Until I—we, no, she ruined it. She could have f

“Do you like it?” she asks. I scoff, like?  No, I love it and I say that out loud with a smile that makes my cheeks ache. It is almost the same as the one their mother gifted me. My first birthday gift without the usual sentiments attached to it, I miss her.  The words are the same: Best daddy in the world but with a wink. I turn the mug upside down to get a better look at it and the new addition of my title for them: Daddy’s little girls at the bottom has me grinning sheepishly. I might have bawled my eyes out if they weren’t staring expectantly at me, I force myself to smile. To remind them how much I love them. I don’t understand how I lived without them. We are approaching their school gate when I ask, “How was your week? Did anything fun happen?” With a pointed look at Wyn, I say, “Did you try anything nice again?” She offers her most innocent smile, the shaking of Bren’s head is what truly convinces me of the little experimentalist’s i

El’s statement unleashes a mountain of fury inside me as she had hoped it would. That tiny smirk when she shooed me confirmed her victory. And that lace. She’s wearing lace with a matching thong for a man that is not her husband. Even had the gall to wish me a happy birthday after chasing me with blue balls. I never want to hear those words again, even from the twins. There’s nothing happy about this birthday, about being unwanted by your wife. Or, watching regret flee into her eyes because she kissed you. I shift in my seat while scouring the web for a profile of this T, the scrawny guy I gave little thoughts to. He is not her type. He is nothing like me and I am her type. Yes, he cares, maybe a little too much but no guy stays long in her life. With the twins’ help and my brilliant ideas, it is easy to frustrate them. If they are frustrated enough to leave then they don’t deserve to be in her life. Am I the deserving one? Yes. A page comes up on T. He’s rich, so am