The Broke Husband’s Billion-Dollar Name

The Empty Table

The restaurant glowed like a jewel box.

James Caldwell sat alone at a corner table, his fingers steadily tracing the edge of a small velvet box he’d slipped into his pocket hours ago. Inside was a silver chain with a star-shaped pendant, a necklace James had chosen for Sophia Carver’s birthday—a promise he’d kept to someone powerful, though she’d never know.

He’d booked this place, La Lumière, months in advance, the same restaurant where they’d shared their first awkward dinner four years ago. Back then, Sophia smiled shyly, her laughter a rare gift.

Tonight, the table held only his untouched glass of merlot and a flickering candle, its wax melting slowly like his patience.

James glanced at his watch: 9:47 PM. Three hours late.

He’d called Sophia once, leaving a calm voicemail: “Hey, it’s me. Checking if you’re on your way. I’ll be here.” 

She hadn’t answered, but he’d convinced himself she’d show. She always did, eventually, even if her eyes never met his anymore.

In the corner, a jazz band played a sad tune, the saxophone cutting through the noise of laughter, clinking glasses, and busy waiters.

The air smelled like truffle oil and rosemary, but to James it was suffocating, heavy with his patience running out.

He shifted in his chair, the suit he’d ironed twice feeling too tight. He noticed a waiter’s nervous glance so he looked back firmly, silencing the man’s pity.

The other diners kept sneaking looks at him, whispering behind their hands. ‘Poor guy,’ one said, thinking he couldn’t hear. ‘Stood up on a night like this.’ James’s jaw tightened, but he kept staring back until they looked away, uncomfortable.

Sophia was a superstar, her image covering top billboards across the city. Her schedule was nonstop with photo shoots, interviews, and rehearsals.

“She had warned him at breakfast a few days ago, her voice sharp: ‘I don’t know, James. Work is crazy.’”

But he’d seen the flicker of recognition in her eyes when he mentioned La Lumière. She’d come. She had to.

His phone buzzed, and he grabbed it, his heart steady as he saw Sophia's name glowing on the screen. He answered calmly, his wine glass still. “Sophia? Where are you?”

“James, for God’s sake, I’m working.” Her voice was tight over the line, flat and impatient. No warmth, no apology. “Why do you keep calling? You’re distracting me.”

He swallowed, gripping the phone. “It’s your birthday. I booked us a table. You said you’d try to—”

“I never promised anything,” she snapped. “You know how important this is. Stop being so needy.”

James’s Chest Tightened, but He said evenly, "I expected more from you, Sophia.” Silence stretched, then came a muffled sound, a low, intimate chuckle from a man. His stomach turned. “Sophia, who’s with you?”

“Don’t start,” she cut him off, her voice full of anger. “I don’t have time for this.”

Before he could answer, another voice came through the line, smooth and close. “Come back, darling. Let him wait.”

The words hit him like a punch. Then the call ended, leaving James staring at his phone, the screen as dark as his thoughts.

He sat still, his jaw tight and his eyes narrowing. The necklace in his pocket felt like a stone. He wanted to believe it was a mistake, but he knew better—she underestimated him, she always had.

Sophia was under pressure, her career clawing back after the accident three years ago—a car crash that left her paralyzed, her star dimmed. James had been there, every day, helping her through therapy, carrying her when she couldn’t walk, believing in a future he’d secured for her, one she’d never suspect.

Their marriage, a secret to protect her image, had been his anchor. But now, that chuckle, that voice—it wasn’t just work pulling her away.

A screen near the entrance flickered on, the news anchor’s voice rising over the jazz. “Breaking news from the heart of the city!” The crowd went quiet, everyone turning to look.

James looked up, and his breath caught. There, on the screen, was Sophia, glowing in a crimson gown, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. She stood beside a man in a LV suit, his arm around her waist. Simon Alexander Reed, heir to the Reed fortune, his smile as sharp as his cheekbones. Fireworks exploded behind them, painting the city in gold and red.

“And in a stunning moment,” the anchor gushed, “Simon Reed just confessed his love for Sophia Carver in front of a thousand cameras at the Gala of Stars. Sources say it’s a rekindled romance—Sophia’s first love, back after years apart!”

People at the tables whispered to each other, leaning closer, their eyes full of curiosity. “They’re perfect together,” a woman at the next table said, her voice awed. “Simon’s got billions, and Sophia’s back on top. Did you know he was with her before her accident? He vanished when she got hurt, but now… it’s like fate.”

James's hands clenched under the table. He remembered Simon from Sophia’s stories, shared in rare quiet moments while she recovered. He was her first love, the one she cared for before the crash that left her paralyzed and put her career on hold.

James had been the one to stay, to wipe her tears, to cheer when she took her first steps again. But on the screen, Sophia’s smile was dazzling, a warmth she had never shown him.

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, speculating about a wedding, a power couple, a storybook ending. No one knew about James, the husband hidden in the shadows to protect her career.

His throat burned, the wine untouched. The necklace in his pocket mocked him—a cheap gesture compared to Simon’s fireworks. But he knew its true cost, a favor he’d called in for her sake.

He overheard a waiter murmur, “Guy’s still here? Tough night.” The pity stung worse than the betrayal.

James wanted to scream, to tell them Sophia was his wife, that he’d given everything for her. But what would it change?

The screen kept showing Sophia and Simon kissing, with the city celebrating behind them.

He pushed back his chair, the scrape loud in the quieting room. The diners’ eyes flicked to him, then away, as if his pain was an inconvenience. He couldn’t stay here, surrounded by their whispers and her absence.

The velvet box stayed in his pocket, its weight impossible to ignore. As he stood, the jazz band played on, the saxophone now sounding like a funeral for his marriage.

Outside, the 3D billboards showed Sophia’s smiling face everywhere, her latest movie poster glowing bright blue.

James stood under the restaurant’s awning, his breath visible in the September chill.

He should go after her, demand answers, fight for what they’d built. But the image of her with Simon, the sound of that man’s voice, rooted him to the spot.

His phone buzzed in his hand, the screen lighting up with a text from Sophia. Three words, as cold as the night air: “Don’t wait up.” James held the velvet box tightly, his knuckles turning white, and whispered, “You’ll see.”