Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 245

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VENUS

The car stopped at the gate, and it didn’t open right away.

That was the first sign.

The delay was brief-seconds, maybe-but I felt it in my chest, the way you feel a misstep before your foot actually lands wrong. The guard at the gate looked at me through the tinted glass, his face unreadable, his posture a shade too formal. Then the gate slid open, smooth and silent, as if nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

The drive up the long curve toward the house felt longer than it ever had. The gravel crunched under the tires, louder than usual, like it was announcing me. When I parked, no one came out to meet me. No Rosemary hovering with concern. No staff pretending not to watch while very obviously watching.

Just the house.

Still. Upright. Waiting.

I got out of the car and stood there for a second longer than necessary, my hand resting on the door, my pulse ticking hard in my throat. I could still feel the studio lights on my skin, the weight of the words I’d dropped into the world like glass.

Divorce.

I hadn’t rehearsed how it would sound when it came back to me.

I walked inside.

The front door closed behind me with a sound that felt final in a way doors usually didn’t. The house was quiet — too quiet. Not the gentle, managed quiet of nap time or evening routines, but an absence. Like something essential had been removed.

“George?” I called instinctively.

Nothing.

“Sabine?”

Silence answered me.

My heart stuttered. “Where are my kids?” I said, louder now, my voice echoing faintly down the hall.

“That won’t work.”

Aaron’s voice came from the living room.

I turned.

He was standing near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone discarded on the table behind him like he’d flung it there and forgotten it existed. His posture was rigid, not defensive-contained. The kind of

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containment that came from holding something down by force.

“So,” he said, turning fully to face me. “You’re divorcing me.”

The words landed without heat. That was worse.

“And I find out on television?”

I took a step toward him. “Where are my children?”

He didn’t answer.

“Aaron,” I said, sharper. “Where are they?”

He stared at me like he was trying to reconcile two images that refused to line up.

“What the fuck, Venus?” he said quietly. “You asked for space. I gave it to you. I stepped back. I stopped pushing. I told myself this was grief talking-that you were hurting and didn’t know where to put it.”

I moved to walk past him toward the stairs.

He stepped into my path.

The movement was quick, instinctive, his body blocking mine without touching me. Not violent. Controlled. The way he moved when something mattered.

“This isn’t some kind of twisted game,” he said, his voice finally rising. “You went out there and told the entire world that I abandoned you. That I didn’t care about Iris.”

“That’s not-”

“She’s my kid too,” he cut in. “My daughter. And I have spent every waking moment looking for her. Every single one. While also trying to keep George from falling apart. While holding Sabine when she cries for a sister she doesn’t understand is gone.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes were dark now, burning with something rawer than anger.

“And you sat in a chair, Venus,” he went on, “and you painted me as a man who chose a company over his child.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t say ”

“You didn’t have to,” he snapped. “You let implication do the work. You always were good with words.”

I shook my head. “You don’t understand.”

He laughed once. It was short. Bitter. Unfamiliar. “That’s rich. I’ve done nothing but try to understand you.”

I tried again to move past him. “Aaron, please. I need to see them.”

“No,” he said, and this time there was no softness in it. “You don’t get to deflect.”

He stepped closer, and for the first time I saw it clearly-the exhaustion carved deep into his face, the restraint fraying at the edges.

“You disappeared,” he said. “You shut me out. You made decisions without me. You let rumors spread. You let

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people think I couldn’t even control my own wife.”

I flinched.

“And still,” he continued, “I stayed. I told myself this was temporary. That if I just held steady, you’d come back to me.”

His voice broke on the last word.

“You stood there today,” he said, quieter now, “and told the world our marriage was over. And you didn’t even have the decency to look me in the eye first.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

“Where are my kids?” I tried again, my voice cracking.

“They’re safe,” he said immediately. “They’re with my mother.”

My shoulders sagged with a relief that felt like a betrayal all on its own.

“You don’t get to use them as a shield,” he went on. “Not after what you did.”

I looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in my chest twisted painfully.

“I never said you didn’t love her,” I whispered. “I said you didn’t know how to sit with this.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” he shot back. “You don’t get to rewrite my grief to make yourself feel justified.”

“I didn’t do this for me.”

“Then why does it look exactly like that?” he demanded. “Why does it look like you burned me down in public and called it survival?”

I felt the weight of Andrea’s voice in my head. The threat. The image of Iris’s small hand.

“You weren’t there,” I said, the words scraping out of me. “Not with me.”

“I was right here,” he said. “Every day. Every night. I slept on the floor of George’s room when he couldn’t breathe through his nightmares. I missed board meetings. I walked away from deals. I tore apart every lead we had.”

He stepped back, dragging a hand down his face.

“And still,” he said, “it wasn’t enough for you.”

Silence fell between us, thick and suffocating.

“I don’t recognize you anymore,” he said finally.

That hurt more than anything else he’d said.

“You look like her,” he continued. “But you don’t sound like her. You don’t move like her. And the woman I married would never have done this.”

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My throat closed. “You don’t know what I’ve been living with.”

“I know you,” he said. “Or at least-I thought I did.”

He shook his head slowly, like he was mourning something already gone.

“I tried, Venus. God help me, I tried. I gave you space. I gave you patience. I defended you when people whispered. I told myself you were still in there.”

He looked at me with something like grief. Like resignation.

“But you’re beyond redemption now.”

The word hit hard. Final. Unforgiving.

“You don’t mean that,” I whispered.

“I do,” he said. “Because whatever this is—whatever you’ve become—it’s not someone I can stand beside anymore.”

I took a step toward him, panic rising. “Aaron-”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t say my name like that.’

He straightened, the decision settling into his posture like armor.

“You want a divorce?” he said. “Fine. You made that choice for both of us.”

I stared at him, my chest tight. “Please. I just need time.”

“You’ve had time,” he replied. “And you used it to destroy what we had.”

He moved to the side, clearing the path behind him-not toward the stairs, but toward the door.

“Pack a bag,” he said. “And leave.”

The words didn’t make sense at first.

“This is my house too,” I said weakly.

“It was,” he corrected. “Right up until you told the world it wasn’t.”

My vision blurred. “Aaron, don’t do this.”

“I already did,” he said. “When I believed in you longer than I should have.”

I stood there, shaking, my mouth opening and closing uselessly.

“You can’t do this,” I said. “Not like this.”

“I can,” he replied. “And I am.”

He opened the door.

“Go,” he said. “Before I say something I can’t take back.”

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I looked at him one last time, searching for any crack, any sign of the man who used to reach for me without thinking.

There was nothing.

Just resolve.

I turned and walked out.

The door closed behind me with a sound that echoed through my bones.

And just like that, I was alone.

Again.

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