Love at First Night: The Billionaire's First Love-Chapter 83: Let’s get a divorce!

>Mallory

Husband, just so you know—I’m so fucking pissed right now.

The words echoed in my head the moment the office door closed behind us.

Only then did my brain finally catch up.

My steps slowed, then stopped completely as the realization hit. I had actually said that. Out loud. To his face. The anger that had pushed the words out drained away just as fast, leaving nothing behind but embarrassment and regret.

What was I even thinking? Why did I say that so easily, like I actually had the right to feel this way? We weren’t a real couple. We were bound by a contract, nothing more. A signature on paper. A deal that benefited both of us. That was it. But earlier when I heard those words, I just acted.

I had been so angry that my brain completely shut down.

Now, inside his office, the silence made everything worse.

Heat rushed to my face all at once, burning my cheeks and spreading down my neck. My skin felt tight, hot, uncomfortable. I didn’t need to see myself to know how obvious it was. I probably looked ridiculous.

I lowered myself onto the leather seat, my back straight, my knees pressed together. My hands rested on my lap, fingers curling slowly into fists. The leather was smooth and cool beneath my palms, the contrast sharp against how hot I felt.

I’ll keep that in mind, my butt.

I scoffed quietly to myself.

He really did play his role too well. The caring husband. The attentive one who remembered my meals, checked my condition, stayed close when I was sick. He did it so naturally that I almost forgot the truth. I should have known better.

Everyone knew what kind of man he was.

Cold. Distant. A man rumored to dislike women altogether. Why would he suddenly change for me? Why would I be any different?

If I hadn’t come here today—if I hadn’t overheard their conversation—I might have kept believing the act. Like a fool.

I told myself again that I had no reason to be upset. No reason at all. But the tightness in my chest refused to go away. It sat there, heavy and stubborn, pressing down no matter how many times I tried to talk myself out of it.

I didn’t understand it.

Why did it bother me so much that he didn’t tell them he was happy with me? Why did it hurt that he let them joke about introducing their daughters to him like I didn’t exist? Their laughter replayed in my head without permission, over and over again.

I wasn’t used to this feeling. I didn’t even know what to call it. All I knew was that it hurt, and I hated that it did.

The office was quiet, filled only with the faint hum of the air conditioner.

My fingers curled into a fist as I sat straight on the leather sofa in his office. The material was smooth and cold under my palms. It smelled like sandalwood and musk, the familiar scent that always clung to him.

Clean, calm, and somehow always there, It was the same smell that lingered on his clothes, the one I had grown used to over the past week while he took care of me. The realization made my fingers tighten again.

I watched him walk toward the rack near the wall. He didn’t say anything. He took off his suit jacket, movements neat and practiced, then hung it carefully in place. The soft sound of fabric and metal felt loud in the silence.

My eyes followed him without me meaning to. Every small movement pulled my attention back to him, no matter how hard I tried to stay focused on anything else.

He turned and walked back toward me.

His steps are slow and quiet.

I noticed how his eyes kept flicking in my direction, quick glances he probably thought I didn’t see. My shoulders stiffened as he got closer, my body refusing to relax. The lunchbox I brought sat on the glass table between us, untouched.

Exactly where I had placed it earlier when we entered the office.

We were supposed to eat together but neither of us had said anything since we arrived here.

The sofa dipped slightly as he sat down closer. I felt it right away. I didn’t turn my head, but I knew he was looking at me. His presence was close, too close, making it hard to breathe normally. I kept my gaze forward, fist clenched on my lap, pretending he wasn’t there.

"Did you bring this for me?" he asked.

He was already unwrapping the cloth around the lunchbox, his movements careful, almost gentle. When he opened it, his expression changed instantly. His eyes softened, lighting up in a way that caught me off guard.

He looked genuinely happy.

Like a kid opening a gift.

"You can eat it," I said quickly. "I already ate."

I didn’t meet his eyes. I felt him pause for a moment before placing the lunchbox back on the table. When he opened it fully, the smell filled the office almost instantly.

My stomach reacted before my brain could stop it.

The food smelled warm and comforting. I glanced at the food without thinking, my mouth watering. Only then did I realize the truth—I hadn’t eaten anything at all. I had been too focused on getting here, on making sure he could eat on time. I pressed my lips together.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly. "I missed eating with you."

He pouted.

That simple expression made my fist tighten even more. My brows pulled together as irritation mixed with something else I didn’t want to name. I turned my head away, refusing to look at him.

And then, just my luck—

My stomach growled.

Loudly.

The sound echoed in the quiet office, hanging in the air longer than it should have.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then he chuckled, low and soft, like he found it more amusing than awkward. The sound wasn’t mocking—it was gentle, almost fond, and that somehow made it worse.

"Eat with me," he said. His voice dropped slightly, calm and warm. "I don’t want to eat alone. Please?"

I turned to look at him.

My expression was stiff, my face carefully blank, even though my chest felt tight. I kept my back straight and my chin lifted, forcing myself to meet his eyes instead of looking away. I was still angry. I reminded myself of that again and again, like repeating it might make it stick.

I couldn’t let his soft voice weaken me.

I didn’t respond.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. My fingers curled tighter in my lap, nails pressing into my skin. His gaze stayed on me, steady and patient, like he wasn’t in a hurry at all.

It took everything in me to stay quiet.

The way he looked at me—expectant but not pushy—made my resolve wobble. His tone replayed in my head, gentle and familiar, stirring thoughts I didn’t want to deal with. I bit the inside of my lower lip hard, grounding myself in the sharp sting, pushing everything else down before it could spill over.

I refused to give in.

After a moment, he let out a quiet sigh.

He stood up without another word. The movement drew my eyes despite myself. His steps toward the desk were slow and unhurried, like he had already accepted my silence. He reached the intercom and pressed the button.

A soft beep cut through the room.

"Yes, Young Master?" a voice answered.

It was Noel. I recognized it instantly.

"Bring us some drinks," he said evenly. "I’ll be having my lunch here in the office."

"I understand, Young Master."

The intercom beeped again and went silent.

He turned and walked back toward the sofa.

When he sat down, he left a small space between us—not too far, not too close. He didn’t slide the lunchbox toward me. He didn’t look at me expectantly or say anything else.

He simply opened his own container and started eating slowly, like he was willing to wait as long as it took.

The quiet stretched between us.

Minutes passed.

Finally, there was a knock on the door.

Noel came in carrying a tray with two glasses of iced tea. He placed them on the table, nodded politely, and left without another word. The door closed softly behind him.

I stared at the glass in front of me.

Condensation slid down the sides, droplets collecting at the bottom. My throat felt dry.

I sighed and reached for a pair of chopsticks.

"Fine," I muttered. "I’m hungry anyway. Might as well do what I came here for."

The moment I spoke, his head snapped up.

His eyes lit up instantly, warm and bright, like I had just given him permission to breathe again. That look made my chest ache for no reason I wanted to think about.

We started eating.

At first, neither of us spoke. The soft tapping of chopsticks against containers filled the room, steady and rhythmic. I focused on the food, chewing slowly, paying attention to the texture and warmth so I wouldn’t think about anything else.

"This is really good," he said after a while.

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on my food. "It’s nothing special."

I wasn’t even the one who cooked it.

"It is to me."

I paused, chopsticks hovering for a brief second before continuing. I didn’t answer.

When we finished, he stood and cleared the table. I watched him move around the office, efficient and calm, like everything in his life had a place and purpose.

He threw things away, wiped the table, carried the containers aside without missing a step.

When he came back, he stopped in front of me.

"I’m sorry," he said quietly.

I looked up at him.

"For earlier," he continued. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

The tightness in my chest returned instantly, sharper than before. Pain and disappointment twisted together until it was hard to tell them apart. I took a breath, then another, swallowing against the dryness in my throat.

Then I spoke.

"Let’s get a divorce."