Tricked the Billionaire into Divorcing Me

A sharp, burning pain in her lower abdomen dragged Caitlin Walters from the anesthesia's heavy grip.

She blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights. The VIP suite offered nothing but stark white walls and the steady drip of saline. The scent of bleach hung thick in the room. Aside from the mechanical beep of the heart monitor, the room was completely silent.

Six years of marriage, and she had spent the aftermath of a major tumor resection entirely alone.

Another spasm ripped across her surgical incision. Caitlin reached out toward the nightstand for the nurse call button, finding the remote tossed just beyond her reach. Sweat formed on her forehead as she stretched her arm. Every millimeter of movement pulled brutally on her stitches.

Her fingertips grazed the plastic cord. Gritting her teeth, she dragged the controller across the laminate surface and jammed her thumb into the red button.

A young nurse entered two minutes later. She adjusted the IV flow, glancing around the empty private suite with a furrowed brow.

"Mrs. Owen? Is your husband not staying with you?"

Caitlin looked away, keeping her expression perfectly smooth.

"He had an urgent board meeting," she murmured, offering the same practiced excuse she had used for six years to preserve the Owen family name.

The nurse administered a dose of pain medication through the IV port. Once the throbbing in her abdomen dulled to a low ache, Caitlin reached for her phone on the side table.

Her lock screen was blank. There was no text message or missed call from her husband, Greyson Owen.

She unlocked the screen and dialed his direct number. The line rang six times before clicking over to an automated voicemail system.

"You have reached Greyson Owen. Leave a message."

She ended the call and dialed the landline of the Owen estate in Long Island.

Martha, the head housekeeper, answered on the second ring. Her voice was hesitant.

"Walters residence."

"Martha, it's Caitlin. Is Dovie there? How is my daughter?"

"Mrs. Owen... Mr. Owen and the young miss are out."

"Out where?" Caitlin asked, a sudden chill settling over her. "At this hour?"

Martha paused, sounding distinctly uncomfortable.

"Mr. Owen took her to a private function, ma'am. Please, focus on resting after your operation."

Martha hung up before Caitlin could ask another question.

Caitlin slowly lowered the phone. She opened a financial news app. The top headline was already flashing across the banner: Owen Group Reaches Record High Market Cap: CEO Greyson Owen Celebrates with Family at Waldorf Astoria Gala.

Caitlin tapped the notification.

An ultra-high-definition photo loaded instantly. Under the crystal chandeliers of the Waldorf grand ballroom stood Greyson, looking impeccably sharp in a bespoke tuxedo, raising a champagne flute toward a circle of Manhattan investors.

Draped over his arm was Antonia Erickson, the biological daughter of Caitlyn's adoptive parents. She looked up at him with a bright laugh, dressed in a fiery red designer gown that made her look radiant, poised, and every inch the true heiress of the Owen estate.

Between them stood six-year-old Dovie Owen. Caitlin's daughter was looking up at Antonia with open adoration, her small hand clutching the satin hem of Antonia's dress.

Caitlin stared at the red gown. It was the exclusive couture piece Greyson had gifted Caitlin for their fifth wedding anniversary-an anniversary he had skipped for a business trip to Milan. Caitlin had never even taken off the tags.

Now, her husband was celebrating his corporate triumph in public, her daughter was clinging to another woman, and she was lying alone in a hospital bed with fresh surgical staples holding her flesh together.

Caitlin let out a short, harsh breath. The sudden movement pulled violently on her abdominal incision, sending a fresh wave of agony through her torso.

The nurse hurried back inside, alarmed by the sudden spike on the heart rate monitor.

"Mrs. Owen! You shouldn't strain yourself!"

Caitlin raised a hand, gesturing for the nurse to step back. The lingering warmth in her chest faded completely, leaving behind a cold, absolute clarity.

She picked up her phone. Without hesitation, she selected Greyson's contact card and pressed delete.

Then, she opened her messaging app and tapped the name of Chloe Sterling-her closest friend and one of the most ruthless divorce attorneys in New York City.

Her fingers did not shake as she typed five words.

"Chloe, I need a divorce."

She hit send, set the phone facedown on the white sheets, and closed her eyes.