From Billionaire Heartbreak to Movie Star Romance Chapter 1

My husband’s “little kitten” was unnervingly well-behaved.

When my husband, Warren, and I were in a deep freeze, she’d call him, urging him to come home to me.

She even helped him pick out a gift for our daughter’s birthday.

The friends in our circle were full of advice: “At least she’s discreet. Better a quiet little mouse than one of those shameless drama queens. For the kids, just let it slide.”

But one night before bed, I overheard Warren on the phone, his voice a low, tender murmur:

“...A storm is coming tonight. Close your windows tight. If you catch a chill, I’ll worry...”

In that moment, I realized I was utterly exhausted.

When I finally proposed divorce, Warren just scoffed.

“You have to be reasonable! I come home for dinner every single night, and Sasha has never once caused a scene in front of you! What exactly are you so dissatisfied with?”

I looked at him, calm and composed.

“If you insist on a reason? I guess after getting used to fresh produce, I just can’t bring myself to tolerate wilted greens.”

* * *

I spent two years in the States, settling our son, Alex, into his prep-school routine before he went off to Harvard Business. When I returned home to our estate in Greenwich, I found Warren Abbott had changed.

He still looked at me with a semblance of familiar warmth and affection. Yet, in his peripheral gaze, I detected a barely perceptible flicker of distance.

I am a highly sensitive person; I felt that minute shift instantly.

And it wasn't just the eyes. In the eight months since I’d been back, he hadn't once suggested we share a bed.

Warren may be forty-nine, but he has always been vigorous. They say a Ferrari is a Ferrari—and he was certainly that type. His lean, tall frame made him look like the polished, intellectual CEO he was. His deeply set features hadn't lost their edge, even with a few more fine lines. We used to be intimate on a near-weekly basis.

Beyond that, his personal style had shifted.

I had always relied on our private clothing consultant to curate Warren's wardrobe—a collection of tailored suits and casual wear that projected the perfect blend of gravitas, comfort, and taste.

But there he was, wearing a sleek, narrow-cut suit with a ridiculously trendy pink silk tie.

There was no way he had bought that himself.

My heart sank, but I kept my expression neutral, studying him with a stillness that belied my inner turbulence. All the evidence pointed to the same inescapable conclusion: Warren had strayed.