My Husband Divorced Me Seven Times for His First Love—Then Told Me to Make Their Bed

The pen felt light in my hand as I signed the divorce papers for the seventh time.

For seven years, I married and divorced Julian so he could spend "free" vacations with Chloe, his first love.

He thought I would always wait.

"Same time next month, Serena," he smirked, packing his suitcase to meet her at the airport. "Don't forget to water my plants."

He didn't notice I hadn't packed a single bag to move into the guest apartment this time.

Instead, I walked out to the driveway where a fleet of black Maybachs waited.

The city's most feared billionaire, Caleb, bowed as he opened the door for me.

"Welcome back to your empire, Ms. Sterling."

Through the rearview mirror, I watched Julian drop his suitcase as the truth finally crushed him.

***

I slid the seventh divorce agreement across the chilled glass of the dining table until it touched the edge of Julian's phone.

He didn't even glance at the title on the document, his eyes glued to the glowing screen where a text notification from Chloe had just popped up.

"Sign on the bottom right," I said, my voice barely louder than the rain battering the living room windows.

Julian reached inside his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a heavy black pen without bothering to shrug off the wet fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. Water dripped from his collar onto the mahogany floorboards, pooling near his leather shoes.

"Is the property division the same as the sixth time?" he asked, flipping straight to the final page with practiced speed.

"Exactly the same," I replied. "I take nothing. You keep the house, the cars, and the company shares."

"Good." His pen scratched against the thick paper, leaving a jagged signature inside the dotted box. "Chloe's flight lands in ten minutes. Terminal four is a nightmare right now with the storm, so I need to leave immediately."

"You could have signed it tomorrow," I pointed out, watching his knuckles whiten around the barrel of the pen.

"Chloe wants to see the paperwork finalized before she steps foot in the city," he told me, capping the pen with a sharp snap. "You know how sensitive she gets about legalities whenever she returns from Europe."

"Right. Her sensitivities always come first."

"Don't start that tonight, Serena," he warned, his tone hardening. "I don't have the time or the energy for an argument."

He slid the document into his leather briefcase, the metal latch clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the empty kitchen. Seven times we had married. Seven times we had divorced. Every single cycle revolved around Chloe's departures and arrivals, her whims dictating the legal status of my existence. Whenever she got bored of abroad and wanted Julian back, I was discarded. Whenever she left him again, he dragged me back to the city hall to fill the void.

Julian stepped around the table and stopped right beside my chair. He raised his hand and patted my shoulder twice, a brief, perfunctory touch that felt more like a master dismissing a loyal dog than a husband saying goodbye to his wife.

"Make sure the master bedroom is spotless by tonight," he instructed, checking the silver watch on his wrist. "Change the sheets to the Egyptian cotton ones she likes. And clear your things out of the bathroom vanity. Put them in the guest room downstairs like you usually do."

I stared at the damp cuff of his shirt. "You want me to prepare your bed for another woman while I am still living under your roof?"

"We are divorced as of two minutes ago, Serena," he replied, his voice flat and completely devoid of warmth. "Besides, you have done it six times already. Why complain now? It saves me the trouble of hiring a cleaning crew at the last minute, and you know where all of Chloe's favorite pillows are stored."

"I am not your maid, Julian."

"You live here rent-free," he countered, leaning down slightly so his face was level with mine. "The least you can do is make yourself useful while I'm at the airport. Chloe has severe allergies to dust, so run the air purifier on high before we get back."

"And what if I say no?" I asked.

Julian let out a short, mocking laugh. "Right. Where exactly are you going to go, Serena? You haven't held a job since we got married the first time. Your bank account is tied to mine. You don't even have a car of your own to drive in this storm."

"I will figure something out."

"Stop playing the victim," he snapped, standing upright and adjusting his tie in the reflection of the glass display cabinet. "Every time Chloe comes back, you pull some kind of stunt to get my attention. First it was the hospital drama seven years ago. Then you pretended to lose your passport when we needed to file the third divorce. What is it going to be today? Are you going to throw a tantrum on the front porch?"

I remained seated, my hands resting flat on the cold tabletop. In the past, his words would have ripped through my chest, forcing tears down my cheeks and making me beg him to stay. Today, my eyes were dry.

Seven years ago, when he handed me the first set of divorce papers to appease Chloe, I had locked myself in the bathroom with a razor blade. I remembered the sterile smell of the emergency room, the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, and the coarse gauze wrapped around my left wrist. I had waited forty-eight hours in that hospital bed, praying the door would open. Julian never showed up. He had been at the harbor, throwing a farewell yacht party for Chloe before her first trip to Paris.

"No tantrums," I told him quietly, breaking the silence between us.

Julian raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my lack of tears. He studied my face for a brief second, looking for the usual signs of heartbreak or panic. When he found neither, his jaw tightened slightly before he turned away.

"Good. Because I don't have the patience for it today. The traffic on the interstate is already backing up due to the rain, and Chloe hates waiting at the curb."

He walked toward the foyer, his heavy shoes thudding against the hardwood floor.

I reached down to my left hand. My thumb brushed against the thin, tarnished silver band encircling my ring finger. It was the only ring Julian had ever bought me—a cheap twenty-dollar piece from a pawn shop on our first wedding anniversary, purchased only because I had cried and begged him for a physical token of our union while Chloe was spending the summer in Italy.

I grabbed the metal between two fingers and pulled. It slid over my knuckle with a faint scrape against my skin, leaving behind a pale, indented circle where it had sat for seven years.

Without saying a word, without turning my head to see if he was watching, I tossed the ring into the stainless-steel trash bin next to the kitchen island.

It hit the bottom with a sharp, hollow ping that rang through the quiet room.

Julian paused near the coat rack, his hand hovering over the bronze doorknob. He glanced over his shoulder, his brows furrowed in annoyance as the metallic sound reached his ears.

"What did you just throw away?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the trash bin.

"Garbage," I said, keeping my gaze fixed on the rain streaming down the windowpane.

"You are acting strange tonight," he muttered, shaking his head. "And I don't have time to decode your moods right now. Just get the house ready before nine o'clock. Order some groceries using the house card, but make sure nothing has peanuts in it."

"I won't be ordering anything," I replied, my voice steady and even.

Julian rolled his eyes, clearly assuming I was just being stubborn. He grabbed the handle of the door, pulling it open to let in a gust of cold, wet wind from the driveway.

He stepped across the threshold into the rain, then stopped suddenly.

Julian turned around impatiently, holding the door open with one hand as he looked back at me sitting at the dining table.

"I'll call you in three months to remarry, don't make a fuss this time."