The Billionaire's Bought Bride and Instant Mom Chapter 96

Aveline

Watching Richard and Monica shuffle out the door with their hastily packed bags felt like watching a weight lift from my shoulders. The apartment immediately felt lighter, more breathable, without their toxic presence polluting the air.

I turned back to Eleanor and wrapped my arms around her small frame, breathing in the familiar scent of her lavender soap.

"Grandma, you're so good to me," I whispered against her shoulder. "You helped me fight my battles again."

Eleanor patted my back with gentle hands, the way she had when I was a child seeking comfort after a nightmare.

"Listen to me carefully, sweetheart," she said softly, pulling back to look into my eyes. "From the very beginning to this very moment, you have been the only granddaughter in my heart. Blood or no blood, that has never mattered to me. Anyone who dares to hurt you will have to get through these old bones first."

Her fierce protectiveness brought tears to my eyes, and I felt a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the apartment's heating.

"Now," Eleanor continued, settling back into her favorite chair with a knowing smile, "I can see that restless energy in your eyes. You've got something important to take care of, don't you?"

I looked at her in surprise. "How did you—"

"Child, do you think I don't know you? The moment Richard handed you that contact information, your eyes lit up like Christmas morning. You've been planning something ever since." She waved her hand toward my room. "Go on, go handle whatever it is you need to do. I'll be here when you need me."

I leaned down and kissed her forehead affectionately. "Thank you, Grandma. For everything."

"Just remember what I said about keeping things civil," Eleanor continued, settling back into her favorite chair. "I know you want to give him a piece of your mind—Lord knows he deserves it—but honey catches more flies than vinegar. Be polite, get your divorce, and move on with your life."

"You're right," I agreed, though every fiber of my being wanted to open that email with a string of creative curses. "I'll be the picture of matrimonial courtesy."

"Go on, shoo!" she said with a gentle laugh.

I practically skipped to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. My laptop sat waiting on my small desk, and I took a deep breath before opening it and navigating to my email.

The cursor blinked in the address field, waiting. I typed in the email address Richard had given me, then stared at the blank message body for several minutes, trying to find the right tone.

*Be polite,* I reminded myself. *Professional. Mature.*

Finally, I began to type:

**Subject: Meeting Request - Matrimonial Matters**

*Dear Mr. Sterling,

I hope this message finds you in good health, and that your previous... condition has improved significantly since our arranged union six years ago.

Our marriage, conducted entirely through intermediaries and without so much as a formal introduction, has clearly run its natural course. I suspect you share my sentiment that this arrangement has served whatever purpose it was originally intended to fulfill.

I must apologize for missing our previously scheduled meeting due to an unexpected personal emergency. To remedy this oversight, I would like to propose we meet this coming Saturday at 2 PM at Café Luna on the Upper West Side (2847 Broadway). It's a quiet establishment where we can discuss the dissolution of our union in relative privacy.*

I paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. How would he even recognize me? We'd never met, never exchanged photos. I needed some way for him to identify me, but I wanted it to have meaning. This meeting deserved some kind of ceremony, some symbolic weight.

Then inspiration struck. Perfect.

*I will be easily identifiable by the white roses I'll be carrying and my black dress—colors I felt were appropriately symbolic for the occasion. White for the death of innocence, black for mourning what never was. I trust you'll find the symbolism as fitting as I do.

Should you have any specific... requirements or conditions regarding our divorce proceedings, we can certainly discuss them in person. I'm quite flexible when it comes to expediting this process.

Please confirm your attendance, as I'm sure we're both eager to conclude this chapter of our lives and return to our separate existences.

Respectfully yours,

Your Temporary Wife*

I read through the email three times, making small adjustments to ensure the tone was polite but carried just enough subtle barbs to satisfy my wounded pride. The reference to his "condition," the emphasis on "temporary," the pointed choice of funeral colors—small rebellions wrapped in formal courtesy.

Finally satisfied, I hit send and immediately felt a mixture of relief and anticipation wash over me.

I was about to close my laptop when a notification pinged almost instantly. My heart skipped a beat—could he have responded already?

I clicked on the new message, and sure enough, there it was:

*Received. I will be there.*

That was it. No pleasantries, no acknowledgment of my carefully crafted tone, just four words and initials. The brevity was almost insulting, but somehow it made the whole thing feel more real.

I couldn't help it—I actually bounced up from my chair with excitement, my hands flying to cover my mouth to muffle a little squeal of anticipation.

*Saturday. Three days from now. I'm finally going to meet my mysterious husband.*

---

The next days crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every hour felt like a year, and I found myself constantly checking the calendar, counting down the hours until Saturday afternoon. I was so restless I could barely concentrate on anything.

That's when I decided to take a personal day and called Luna.

"Aveline!" her voice bubbled through the phone. "Perfect timing! I was just thinking about you. Want to go shopping? I have so much to tell you!"

An hour later, I was standing outside Bloomingdale's, waiting for my best friend to arrive. When I spotted her walking toward me, I did a double-take.

Luna looked... different. Her usually simple ponytail had been replaced by soft waves that framed her face beautifully. She was wearing a fitted wrap dress in deep emerald that showed off curves I didn't remember her having, and her makeup was subtle but expertly applied. Even her posture seemed different—more confident, more sensual.

"Holy shit, Luna," I said as she approached, linking my arm through hers. "You look absolutely stunning. What's his name?"