The Billionaire's Broken Bride

Six years after my divorce, I ran into Paul Gilbert on a rainy street corner.

The contrast was brutal. He stepped out of a luxury sedan, shielded by an umbrella, draped in a bespoke overcoat. I stood in the downpour in a grease-stained apron, clutching soggy flyers for a dumpling shop.

His gaze swept over me—cold, mocking.

"This is what you've been reduced to since leaving me?"

I forced a professional smile. "We have fresh dumplings and noodles. Would you like to order?"

He scoffed. "This is your retribution, Serena. After everything you did, do you finally regret it?"