"You're terrible in bed! The stamina of a goldfish! I want someone else!"
"Oh yeah? Who exactly?"
"Someone who can actually keep up!"
My husband's jaw ticked. That night, he proved exactly how much stamina he had—and I could barely walk the next morning.
Three years of marriage. Three years of negative pregnancy tests. Desperate times called for desperate measures—so I pushed every button he had, hoping to finally conceive.
One reckless night of passion later, I thought we'd finally made progress.
Instead, divorce papers slammed into my hands.
"Anyone could mother my child," he said coldly. "Literally anyone but you."
Six years later, I returned from overseas—CEO of a medical empire, renowned archaeologist, certified gemologist, and secret heiress to the nation's wealthiest family. Oh, and I brought along my adorable twin geniuses.
My multiple identities? Mind. Blown.
Meanwhile, my ex-husband's dirty secret hit tabloids: He's firing blanks. Always has been.
Just as I'm about to marry my charming new fiancé (who actually appreciates me), my ex corners me in a hotel suite. His eyes bloodshot, voice cracking:
"You're the only one—the ONLY one—who can be my children's mother. My love. Please..."
Too bad, buddy. You snooze, you lose.
💎 Revenge. Rebirth. Twin Chaos. And one groveling ex who's about to learn what he lost. 💎
