After I left, they begged for Forgiveness

Chapter 8- House wives

Elijah Quinn stepped into his penthouse in Kensington Heights, his footsteps echoing against Italian marble.

He felt something was off.

He halted.

Bags.

Designer bags. Shoes. A silk scarf thrown lazily across the foyer bench. Familiar brands. Familiar taste.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell…”

He moved swiftly through the hall, past his curated art.

His hand flexed, already itching to call security. Someone had broken in—someone with a damn key.

As he approached the west wing, the glow of the massive LED screen lit the room. His living room.

The laughter from the sitcom playing echoed—loud.

And then he saw her.

Valeria.

Sprawled elegantly on the velvet couch in his favorite lounge. Wearing nothing but a white robe—his white robe.

Hair tied in a silk scarf. Legs crossed. A glass of mango juice in one hand, remote in the other.

Laughing.

Elijah stopped at the threshold, darkening his expression.

She didn’t even flinch.

She turned her head, slowly, like she’d been expecting him.

“Welcome home, darling,” she said sweetly, rising to her feet. Her voice dripped with honey and venom. “Rough day?”

He didn’t return the smile.

“What the hell are you doing in my home?” he growled, stepping forward. “Who let you in?”

She walked toward him, arms outstretched for a hug.

He stepped back.

She smirked. “Aw, you’re not in a hugging mood. Pity.”

“Security—” he started.

She raised a single manicured finger.

“No.”

His jaw clenched.

“That threat doesn’t work anymore,” she said coolly.

With her other hand, she reached into the robe’s pocket and pulled out two documents.

The marriage certificate.

The prenup.

Elijah’s eyes flicked over them. Familiar. Damning.

“Our marriage has lasted more than seven years,” she said calmly. “Clause 13, sub-paragraph B—you remember. I own half of everything you have.”

Her voice was now silk-wrapped steel.

“And since I no longer have a penthouse or a car,” she smiled, walking past him to sink back onto the couch, “I decided to come home. As your wife.”

Elijah stared, silent, stunned.

Valeria took a long, slow sip of her mango juice.

“I mean,” she said lightly, “why cry over losing Langston when I can just rule your empire instead? Goddess-level move, wouldn’t you say?”

Then—

Footsteps.

Heels.

Princess Amirah stepped into the room, dressed in a gown, her gold earrings catching the light.

She halted at the doorway, eyes widening as she took in the scene.

Valeria looked up, her smile sharpening.

“Well, well,” she said, setting her drink down. “The side chick arrives.”

Amirah stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Valeria rose, elegant and effortless. “You must be the messenger,” she said coolly, her eyes flicking between the two. “Didn’t Elijah’s little flame tell him I was on my way?”

Elijah’s fists clenched. Amirah looked at him, then Valeria, then back again—caught off guard for the first time in years.

Valeria stepped between them.

“Elijah, darling,” she said sweetly, “your mistress forgot to deliver my message. But I’m here now. Home sweet home.”

She turned to Amirah.

“Don’t worry, Princess. There’s a guest room down the hall. If you’re staying.”

Then she breezed past them both and dropped back onto the couch, picking up the remote like a queen .

Elijah turned slowly, his eyes locking with Amirah’s. His jaw twitched. There was no anger in his expression now—only control, cold and taut.

“Amirah,” he said evenly, “give us the room.”

The Princess stiffened, clearly unaccustomed to being dismissed, especially not by him. But something in his tone——told her now wasn’t the time to challenge it.

She tilted her chin in a graceful nod. “Of course.”

Then she turned, her heels clicking in retreat, disappearing into the far east wing—his second living room, reserved for quieter affairs.

But not before casting one final glare at Valeria.

Valeria didn’t even blink.

She was too busy swirling what was left of her mango juice, like it was aged scotch.

When the room settled into silence, she set it down on the crystal table and looked up.

“Well, look at that. Alone at last,” she said, voice coated in mock sweetness.

Elijah folded his arms.

“What is it that you want?” he demanded, low and sharp.

Valeria chuckled—a soft, sound that slipped through the space like perfume.

“Oh. So now you’re ready to listen,” she said, leaning back against the couch, one leg crossing over the other. “When I was begging you for a meeting, you sent me into a room. you sent me into a room full of vultures and lit the match.”

Her tone darkened, eyes gleaming.

“You disgraced me, Elijah. Publicly. Deliberately. You took everything.”

He didn’t flinch. “And?”

“And now,” she said slowly, rising to her feet, “you’re going to give it back.”

He arched a brow, amused. “Why would I do that?”

She smiled like a woman holding a knife behind her back.

“I’m not here to beat around the bush,” she said, stepping closer. “This is simple. You humiliate me, I move into your home. You fire me, I claim my marriage. You want to bury me? I’ll make sure you bleed.”

She reached into the robe again, pulled out a copy of the prenup, and tapped a highlighted clause with her nail.

“If we divorce,” she said, “I get fifty percent. That includes assets, property, and ownership stakes. And with your net worth as bloated as it is… well, I’d say I’m looking at a nice multi-billion dollar severance package.”

Elijah’s expression didn’t crack. But his eyes… narrowed. Calculating.

Valeria smiled wider, sensing his silence.

“So here’s your choice,” she said, stepping into his space now. “Option one: you go live. On your terms. Apologize for your actions. Reinstate me—not just as a token, not some title you whisper in private—but publicly declare me the CEO of your empire. The face of Quinn Enterprises.”

She let the words sit.

“Option two: you refuse. And I file for divorce in the morning. I’ll walk away with half of everything. The homes. The jets. The brands. The shares. Hell, I might even rename your company Quinn-Langston Global—just to piss you off.”

He stared at her. Silent. Cold. Furious.

But not reckless.

“You’re bluffing,” he said finally.

Valeria leaned in, her voice a breath against his jaw.

“I never bluff. I calculate.”

She stepped back and gave him one final look—smug, poised, unbothered.

“The ball’s in your court, Elijah.”

And with that, she turned her back to him, walked barefoot across his marble floors, and disappeared down the hallway of his house… like she owned it.

Because now—legally—she did.