The news of the divorce broke before I finished packing the bathroom.
I didn't hear it from Darius. I didn't hear it from a lawyer, or a mutual friend, or anyone who thought to ask how I was doing. I heard it from my phone—vibrating softly on the marble counter while I folded towels that were no longer mine.
VOSS GROUP CEO DIVORCES WIFE OF SEVEN YEARS.
The headline was neutral. Almost kind.
I stared at it for a long moment, my fingers still wrapped around the edge of a white towel embroidered with the Voss insignia. I had chosen those towels years ago, back when Darius still asked for my opinion on things that didn't involve numbers.
I set it down and scrolled.
There were no accusations. No scandal. No dramatic details. Just speculation framed as understanding.
Sources close to the CEO say the couple has grown apart.
Insiders suggest the split was amicable.
Voss is said to be focusing on expansion and restructuring.
I exhaled slowly.
Amicable. That word again. As if something clean and quiet could not still be devastating.
I finished packing in silence. By the time I zipped my suitcase, my phone had already lit up with messages I didn't open. Old acquaintances. Distant relatives. People who hadn't spoken to me in years, suddenly curious now that my marriage had ended.
I didn't reply.
I left the apartment just before noon. The doorman looked startled when he saw the suitcase.
"Mrs. Voss—" he began.
"Ms. Langford," I corrected gently.
He nodded, embarrassed. "Of course. I'll call you a cab."
I thanked him and stepped outside into the New York sunlight. The city moved on around me, unbothered, efficient. Taxis honked. People rushed past. Somewhere, someone laughed.
I wondered, briefly, if Darius felt lighter today.
I spent the afternoon at my parents' old brownstone in Tribeca—the one place that still felt solid. The restaurant was downstairs, closed for lunch, the smell of citrus cleaner lingering in the air. Langford & Sons had been in our family for three generations. It was the one thing that had existed before Darius, and would exist after him.
My aunt, Margaret, looked at me for a long moment when I walked in.
"So," she said finally, crossing her arms. "It's true."
"Yes."
"That bastard."
I shook my head. "Don't."
She frowned. "You don't have to protect him anymore, Alina."
"I know," I said. "I just don't want to talk about him."
She studied me, then nodded. "Fair enough."
By evening, the city had already decided what my divorce meant.
I found out when I attended a charity gala that night—one I had committed to months ago, back when being Mrs. Voss was still part of my identity. I considered not going. But absence, I had learned, invited more speculation than presence.
The ballroom was filled with familiar faces. People who smiled too quickly. People who hugged me just a little too tightly.
"You're holding up so well," one woman murmured, as if resilience were a performance.
"You must be relieved," another said, mistaking my composure for freedom.
I smiled politely and said nothing.
Then the room shifted.
It was subtle at first—a change in energy, a collective turning of attention. I followed their gaze instinctively.
Darius had arrived.
He looked exactly as he always did at events like this: immaculate, confident, perfectly at ease. His tuxedo fit him like it had been tailored that morning. He scanned the room with practiced ease, acknowledging greetings with nods and brief smiles.
And beside him—
She wasn't clinging to his arm. She wasn't overdressed or underdressed. She wasn't trying too hard.
She was simply there.
Tall. Graceful. Dark hair pulled into a sleek knot. Her dress was understated but expensive in the way only people who understood fashion could appreciate. She walked half a step behind him, not submissive—just not competing.
I watched as someone leaned in to whisper something to a companion.
I didn't need to hear it.
So that's her.
Darius rested a hand lightly at the small of her back as they paused to greet the host. The gesture was casual, unthinking. Familiar.
It shouldn't have hurt. It wasn't intimate. It wasn't even affectionate.
But it did.
Because I recognized it.
That was the hand placement he used when he wanted to appear attentive. When he wanted the room to believe something about him.
I realized then that this wasn't about replacing me.
It was about continuity.
The woman beside him smiled when introduced, her expression composed. She shook hands, exchanged pleasantries. She didn't look at me, not even once. Either she didn't know who I was—or she knew exactly and had decided I was irrelevant.
Both possibilities stung.
Someone at my table leaned closer. "She's a model," she whispered. "Or maybe a designer. I hear she's very well connected."
I nodded absently.
Darius hadn't noticed me yet. Or perhaps he had and chose not to acknowledge it. I couldn't tell which was worse.
When he finally did look my way, his expression flickered—just for a second. Surprise, perhaps. Or discomfort.
Then he smiled.
It was polite. Neutral. The smile of a man who believed everything was proceeding according to plan.
I returned it, just as politely.
The woman beside him followed his gaze then, her eyes settling on me. For a brief moment, curiosity crossed her face. Then understanding.
She inclined her head slightly, a gesture that was neither friendly nor hostile. Simply… civil.
I nodded back.
That was it. No confrontation. No scene. No drama.
The room, however, buzzed.
By the time I left the gala, the narrative had already solidified.
Darius Voss had moved on.
Alina Langford had been left behind.
Outside, the air was cool. I stood on the steps for a moment, watching Darius and the woman climb into their car. He opened the door for her. She thanked him with a soft smile.
The car pulled away.
I exhaled slowly, the breath catching in my chest before settling.
I wasn't angry. Not yet.
I felt something quieter. Heavier.
The realization that I had been useful to him once—and now, I was no longer necessary.
Back upstairs in the brownstone, I sat alone in the darkened dining room of the restaurant. The tables were empty. The chairs neatly aligned. The place smelled faintly of rosemary and old wood.
This had been mine before him.
I placed my hand on the table and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, the world would continue to talk. To speculate. To judge.
They would say I was discarded.
They would say he had won.
For now, they were right.
And Darius Alexander Voss believed it too.