Forbbiden Divorce: My Billionaire Begged Me

Selena Larson had always wondered if unfaithful men had a habit of keeping two phones.

The evidence came while Zavier Larson was in the shower. His mistress had sent a selfie.

The girl in the photo was remarkably young, her features soft and unassuming. Yet she wore clothes far too luxurious for her age, their opulence sitting awkwardly on her like someone playing dress-up. A faint unease seemed written into her expression.

“Mr. Larson, thank you for the birthday gift.”

Selena stared at the screen until her eyes burned. She had always known there was someone else. That much, she couldn’t deny. But she hadn’t expected it to be someone like this—so young, so... poorly suited to Zavier. Her chest ached with a low, hollow pang, yet mingled with the hurt was a bewildered surprise at what seemed to be her husband’s taste.

Apologies, she thought silently. I shouldn’t have seen your secret.

Behind her, the sound of the bathroom door sliding open broke the moment.

In the space of a breath, Zavier emerged, steam curling soft silver behind him, his imposing figure wrapped in a white robe that clung to the sculpted lines of his chest and abdomen. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the heat of his skin. He looked as effortless as always—handsome, sharp. Remote.

“How long are you going to look at that?” His tone was almost offhand as he reached out, plucking the phone from her grasp. His eyes flicked to hers, unreadable, before turning back to himself.

He began dressing with unhurried precision, entirely unfazed by what she had just uncovered. There wasn’t an ounce of guilt or embarrassment in his bearing. Selena understood why. Zavier’s confidence wasn’t rooted in love; it was economic dominance. Selena had once been a renowned violinist in her own right, a name recognized across the country, but marriage to him had turned her into a woman tucked away, kept and cared for, but seldom acknowledged. A bird, housed in a gilded cage.

She didn’t confront him about the photo. What would’ve been the point?

It was clear that he was about to go out. She tried, almost timidly, to interrupt. “Zavier, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

His hands didn’t pause as he fastened his belt. For a moment, he glanced at her, his lips curling faintly as though recalling some scene—a particular soft curve of her body, the way she’d submitted to him docilely, even earlier that morning. He made a soft, derisive sound in the back of his throat. “What—looking for more already?”

What little humor there was in his voice was edged in condescension. His attempts at affection had always felt like this—never warmth, never tenderness, just indulgence tinged with the unmistakable sense that she was something small to him. Something unimportant.

He turned his attention back to his watch, fitting it around his wrist with calm efficiency. “I’ve got five minutes,” he said, voice mild. “The driver’s downstairs waiting.”

Selena knew where he was going. Her chest tightened as she forced the words out. “Zavier, I... I want to go back to work.”

That made him pause. A fleeting shadow of surprise passed over his face as he looked at her more seriously than he had in months. And then? Amused dismissal.

He reached into his pocket, produced a checkbook, and, with a flourish of careful detachment, tore off a check. The number on it gleamed coldly, indifferently—a token gesture to quell her plea. “Being a full-time housewife doesn’t suit you?” he asked blandly, holding the check out toward her. “Why push yourself?”

That was it. Just money. Then he moved to leave.

Selena gave chase, this time lowering herself with a desperation she couldn’t quite mask. “No, I mean it! I’m not afraid of hard work—I can play violin, I still can—”

“Enough.” His tone flattened, edged with impatience.

To Zavier, Selena was nothing more than a fragile plant, some parasitic bloom that had become accustomed to the light and water of his household—a creature utterly unsuited to surviving the outside world. She was ornamental. Incapable.

He glanced at his watch again. “My time’s up.”

She reached for him one last time, her voice catching as she pleaded, “What about this Saturday? My father’s birthday... Will you come?”

Zavier froze at the door. Just for a second. “I’ll see.”

Then he stepped out, quiet as a ghost. She barely heard the faint click of the door closing. Minutes later, the deep rumble of his car announced his departure, the sound shrinking into nothing as it disappeared down the drive.

Soon after, the housekeeper came upstairs.

They all knew how little warmth passed between the Larsons. Over time, the staff had grown brazen in their casual relaying of messages. “Madam, the master said he’ll be at Hillcrest for a few days—important business. Also, the company just dropped off fresh clothes for him. Should I send them out for cleaning, or will you handle the washing yourself?”

Selena barely moved, her posture folded neatly on the couch, knees drawn beneath her. For a moment, the question didn’t register. Then her lips formed the faintest whisper. “I’ll do it myself.”

Zavier hated the sharp, chemical tang of dry cleaning. Every piece of his clothing—from suits to overcoats—was painstakingly hand-washed and pressed by Selena’s own hand.

He demanded nothing less. No clutter, no outside food, no disarray in their bedroom. Over time, she’d taught herself to cook, to clean with precision, to arrange flowers just to his liking. She became what he wanted most: the picture of the perfect housewife.

There was nothing left of her outside Zavier Larsen.

And yet, for all that, he didn’t love her.

Selena’s eyes drifted downward to the check still pinched between her fingers.

Her family had cratered last year. Her childhood home collapsed overnight, her brother dragged into prison under criminal accusation. Her father’s sudden illness had burdened them all with medical costs—ten thousand a month, sometimes more. Any visit home found Aunt Samantha wringing her hands, berating Selena for not squeezing more from her husband.

“He owns the Larson Group, Selena. A pharmaceutical giant, a billionaire—ten times over! You’re his wife, aren’t you? What’s his is yours!”

Selena could only twist a bitter smile at such words.

What’s his was never hers.

There was no love between them. Zavier was cold to her, their marriage stripped down to mechanics: sex without intimacy. He wouldn’t even let her carry his child. Every time they came together, he’d remind her to take her birth control, a command more than suggestion.

Yes. The pills. She would need to take them now.

Reaching for the bottle, she tipped one into her palm and swallowed it dry, hardly noticing the bitter sting as it slid down her throat.

When it was done, her gaze strayed to the small desk drawer near her side. With the gentlest pull, it glided open, revealing the worn leather cover of a journal. Its pages bristled with handwriting, line over line chronicling years of devotion—Selena’s love, captured raw and relentless from when she was eighteen years old.

Six years. She had loved him for six, long, interminable years.

Her fingers faltered. Her breathing stilled.

Selena closed her eyes.

And let the silence have her.

Selena waited, but Zavier never came back. By Friday night, catastrophe struck the Jacobs family.

Word leaked out: Sullivan Jacobs, their eldest son, was facing potential charges tied to a financial scandal within the Jacobs Group—a conviction that could mean ten years behind bars.

Ten years. Enough to break a man completely.

That same night, Selena’s father suffered an acute cerebral hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital in critical condition, requiring immediate surgery.

Standing in a cold hospital corridor, Selena dialed Zavier repeatedly, but each call rang out unanswered. Just as she was about to quit, her phone chimed with a single, terse text from him:

Still at Hillcrest. If it’s urgent, contact my assistant Sarah.

Desperation overtaking her, she called him again. This time, Zavier picked up. Before he could hang up, she hurriedly spoke: “Zavier, my father—”

He cut her off mid-sentence.

“Is this about money?” His tone carried a sharp edge of annoyance. “I’ve told you plenty of times—if it’s money you need, deal with Sarah. Selena? Are you even listening?”

…

Selena’s gaze drifted to the overhead television, her mind blank as if frozen. A breaking news clip illuminated the screen:

Larson Group CEO celebrates his wife by lighting up Disney World in fireworks—a private display romantically curated for her smile.

The glittering explosions lit up the night sky like a shimmering tapestry. Beneath them, a young woman sat in a wheelchair, her face alight with innocence and joy. Standing behind her was none other than Zavier—her Zavier—speaking into a phone even as his other hand rested tenderly on her shoulder.

Selena blinked, dazed.

After a long pause, her voice cracked, barely holding itself together: “Zavier… where are you?”

There was a pause on the other end, a subtle rustling like he might sigh. His tone sharpened slightly, irritated by her prying. “I told you—I’m busy. If there’s nothing else, I’m hanging up. Just coordinate with Sarah.”

His voice carried no trace of the softness Selena knew he was perfectly capable of—softness he reserved for others. The warmth that filled his gaze as he turned back to the woman in the wheelchair, however, spoke volumes.

Selena rubbed at her blurry eyes. So this was what Zavier’s tenderness looked like.

Behind her, her stepmother’s voice rang out, its sharpness landing like small, needling blows. “Did you get through to Zavier? Selena, you have to convince him to help us this time—”

Samantha’s words trailed off abruptly as her gaze fell on the same screen Selena had been fixated on moments earlier. She stood frozen, stunned by the sight.

It took her a long while to draw a breath and find her words again. “He’s at Hillcrest again, isn’t he? Selena, are you telling me this Scarlett Brooks—that violinist—actually woke him from a coma just by playing music? Even if it’s true, is this how he repays us?”

Her indignation mounted with every word. “He didn’t even bother to remember your birthday!”

…

The more Samantha spoke, the more her anger spiraled, her resentment spilling over until tears welled up in her eyes. “But Selena… please, be smart about this. This isn’t the time to pick a fight with Zavier.”

Selena clenched her trembling hands into tight fists, her nails biting so deep into her palms that they threatened to draw blood, though she felt none of the pain.

Fight with Zavier? How could she? Not because she was some ideal, dutiful wife—Mrs. Larson in name and stature—but because she didn’t even have the right.

An unloved wife. A title, and nothing more.

Her gaze shifted back to the glittering news footage. Quiet and poignant, her words came tumbling out almost as a whisper, as if slipping past her grasp: “How much must all these fireworks cost?”

Samantha frowned, confusion flickering across her face, unable to decipher what Selena meant by the comment.

Lowering her head, Selena turned back to her phone and dialed Sarah.

It was late. An interruption like this was an unwelcome intrusion into anyone’s night, let alone Sarah’s. Well-ensconced in Zavier’s orbit, Sarah had long enjoyed a position of almost unparalleled privilege. Given how thoroughly she understood just how uninterested Zavier was in his wife, Sarah made no attempt to mask her contempt toward Selena.

Her voice over the line was cool and cutting: “Mrs. Larson, you’ll need to submit a formal request for approval. Mr. Larson would need to sign off before any check can be released.”

Then came the barb, delicately laced with malice. “Just like how the jewelry you’re wearing had to be logged before you accessed it.”

Her words were deliberate, venom wrapped in silk. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs. Larson?”

…

Selena’s fingers were steady as she ended the call. For a long time, she stood silent, her shoulders slumping beneath the weight of her reality. Finally, she raised her head and let her gaze settle on the glass in front of her.

Her reflection stared back, ghostly and pale. She lifted her left hand slowly, studying the slender ring finger, where her engagement ring gleamed faintly under the hospital’s harsh lights.

It was the lone possession she held that didn’t require Zavier’s approval or Sarah’s intervention. The only thing that, without question, was hers.

And yet, it summed up everything about her marriage—ornamental, meaningless.

Blinking past the haze of her thoughts, Selena’s voice sounded distant, almost foreign to her own ears. “Help me find a buyer for this ring. Sell it.”

Samantha reeled. “Selena… have you lost your mind?”

Selena turned slowly, her expression steady and unyielding. The sterile emptiness of the hospital’s late-night halls made every footstep she took echo hollowly, her loneliness trailing her with every move.

After a moment's pause, she stopped and spoke with quiet resolve. “Aunt Samantha, I’ve never seen things more clearly than I do now.”

She was going to divorce Zavier.