Tricked the Billionaire into Divorcing Me

Caitlin signed her own discharge papers against the chief surgeon's direct orders on the third morning following her operation.

When the cab dropped her off in front of the Owen estate in Long Island, the gravel driveway was still littered with fallen confetti and crushed plastic cups from an after-party. The heavy mahogany double doors opened to the lingering scent of stale champagne, rich cigars, and heavy feminine perfume.

Caitlin held one hand over her lower abdomen, taking slow, deliberate steps up the curved marble staircase. Every stair sent a dull throb through her healing incision.

The study door on the second floor swung open. Greyson stepped into the hallway, fastening his platinum cuff links. Seeing her standing near the banister, his brow immediately dropped into a sharp scowl.

"Who authorized your discharge? What kind of scene are you trying to make now?"

His tone carried a familiar, biting edge, the same condescension he used with junior analysts at his firm.

Caitlin did not raise her voice. She reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out a crisp white folder containing the initial dissolution paperwork Chloe had drafted, and extended it toward him.

"Greyson, we need to sign the divorce papers."

Greyson did not even glance down at the document. He let out a harsh, mocking chuckle.

"Divorce? Did the surgeon remove half your brain along with the tissue sample? You wouldn't last forty-eight hours in Manhattan without my credit cards."

He flicked his wrist, knocking the folder out of her hand. The sheets of paper scattered across the dark runner rug.

"Drop this pathetic drama and act like the woman who carries my last name."

Before Caitlin could answer, the master bedroom door clicked open. Antonia stepped into the hallway, wrapped in Greyson's monogrammed navy silk robe. Her hair was tousled, and her bare feet padded softly over the floorboards.

Antonia covered her mouth, her eyes gleaming with feigned surprise.

"Oh, Caitlin! You're back already? Goodness, look at your complexion. You look like a ghost."

Antonia glided over to Greyson, naturally slipping her arm around his waist. She leaned her head against his chest, looking down at the scattered papers with a faint smirk.

"Darling, didn't the hospital staff say she needed another full week of observation?"

Greyson's arm moved around Antonia's shoulders, his tone softening instantly into an easy, protective warmth that Caitlin had not heard in years.

"She couldn't stand being away from the center of attention."

Caitlin looked at the two of them standing outside the master suite. Her pulse remained completely steady.

Antonia suddenly pressed two fingers to her temple, letting out a faint, delicate cough. She sagged slightly against Greyson's side.

"Greyson, my head is spinning again... I think the night breeze at the ballroom triggered my migraine."

Greyson tightened his grip on Antonia, his expression shifting to immediate concern. He guided her back toward the bedroom door with immense care.

"Lie down. You shouldn't be on your feet."

He turned back toward Caitlin, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of authority.

"Look what you've done the second you walk through the door. Antonia stayed up late coordinating the press releases for our market cap milestone. She's exhausted."

Caitlin stood motionless, looking at him with detached eyes.

"Go down to the kitchen," Greyson ordered, pointing toward the stairs. "Brew the lavender chamomile infusion Antonia drinks for her migraines. Bring it up immediately."

"I told you," Caitlin said, her voice completely level. "We are getting a divorce."

"Shut up," Greyson snapped, stepping closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over her. "Don't test my patience today, Caitlin. Antonia worked herself sick for this family's public image. As the mistress of this house, taking care of our guests is your basic duty."

Caitlin looked at him.

"My duty?"

"Or should I call Dovie out here?" Greyson's lip curled into a smug, confident sneer. "Let our daughter see how stubborn and cold-hearted her mother is being to someone who treats her like gold?"

At the mention of the little girl, Caitlin felt a brief, sharp pang, but her eyes did not waver.

Greyson took her silence as submission. He adjusted his collar, looking down at her like a master granting a minor pardon to an errant servant.

"Make the tea, bring it upstairs, and we will pretend this little tantrum never happened. Things go back to how they were."

Back to six years of emotional starvation and calculated humiliation.

Caitlin lowered her gaze to the scattered papers on the floor, then looked back up at Greyson's polished, handsome face.

"Fine," she said softly.

Greyson smiled, satisfied that he had reasserted control.

"Don't take all morning."

He turned and walked back into the master bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Caitlin did not look down at the papers again. She turned around and walked toward the ground floor, each step measured and firm against the polished wood.