You‘re Just My Ex-Husband,My Lord

Suddenly overwhelmed by such emotions, he shook his head, trying to discard these inexplicable feelings. Before he could figure out what to do next, the door of the adjacent bedroom creaked open. A tiny figure emerged, clutching a pink stuffed doll, and timidly asked,

"Daddy, is Mommy back yet?"

Hearing mention of her first thing in the morning made his brow furrow briefly in irritation before he quickly masked it.

"No, she hasn't," he replied curtly.

Not wanting his daughter to press further on this topic, he shifted gears immediately.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

The little girl answered softly, "I want Mommy's sandwiches…"

Dave's face darkened instantly.

That woman again!

The last thing he wanted to hear about was her, yet this little girl couldn't stop mentioning her every other sentence.

"Sandwiches, huh?" he said flatly, ignoring her request for Mommy's sandwiches. "Daddy will make them for you."

However, for a man in his thirties who had rarely set foot in the kitchen, even a simple sandwich was a challenge.

The first thing he did upon entering the kitchen was to make himself some coffee. After fiddling with the coffee machine for what felt like an eternity, he finally got it running. While the coffee brewed, he decided to start frying an egg.

The result? A burnt mess.

Frustrated, he tossed the spatula onto the counter.

Running a hand through his hair, he turned to the coffee machine, now finished brewing. Hoping to salvage his mood, he poured himself a cup.

But as soon as the bitter liquid touched his tongue, his face twisted in disgust.

It was terrible.

Not just bad—horribly bad.

So bad, in fact, that he nearly smashed the cup in frustration.

The consecutive failures with frying the egg and brewing coffee snuffed out any remaining enthusiasm he had for cooking.

Standing there in the kitchen, with the acrid smell of burnt egg and the bitter aftertaste of the coffee still lingering, he felt utterly defeated.

Just as he was grappling with his mounting frustration, the kitchen door creaked open again, and the little girl's sweet, impatient voice chimed in,

"Daddy, is the sandwich ready yet?"

Dave Washington turned around, only to be met with the sight of her colorful, mismatched outfit—an ensemble she had apparently thrown together herself. He felt a sudden urge to faint.

Earlier, he had tried to help her get dressed, carrying her back to her room with the intention of picking out something suitable. But she had stubbornly refused his choices, insisting she would select her own clothes. After her relentless protests nearly drove him to a headache, he had retreated to the kitchen.

And now, the result of her independence stood before him—a chaotic explosion of colors that would make even the boldest fashionista cringe.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to steady himself, Dave leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, and squinted at her.

"This is your idea of fashion?" he asked, his tone skeptical.

The little girl, completely unfazed, lifted her chin defiantly. Her small face brimmed with confidence, a touch of mischief glinting in her eyes as she responded with pride,

"Yes! So what?"

Dave Washington was momentarily speechless.

She was, without a doubt, her daughter. That fiery defiance, that audacious confidence—it was uncannily reminiscent of her mother.

"Fine," he said with a calmness that concealed his irritation. "If you think you look good, then you're wearing that to school today."

He had no intention of arguing further. Let her learn her lesson on her own—whether her classmates laughed at her or admired her, she would have to face the consequences of her choices.

Sometimes, experience was the best teacher.

"Let's eat out."

Dave Washington glanced at the disaster that was the kitchen and then bent down to scoop up his daughter, making the suggestion as calmly as he could.

However, just as they were about to leave, the little girl dashed back to her room. Moments later, she reappeared wearing an entirely new outfit—a white chiffon dress paired with a short jacket. The clean, adorable look was such a stark contrast to her earlier chaotic attire that it left him momentarily stunned.

Looking at her now, Dave could only sigh inwardly. Women truly are unpredictable, he thought. Even at such a young age, she already knew how to stir up trouble. When she grew older, she was bound to be even more infuriating than her mother.

Her mother...

The memory hit him like a sudden wave. Just days ago, on the night before the lord's birthday banquet, she had been in his arms, whispering about giving their daughter a sibling.

At the time, as things were getting heated, he had reached for the bedside drawer to grab a condom, only to realize they were out. She had wrapped her arms around his waist, murmuring, "Maybe we don't need it this time. Mom was just saying the other day we should consider a second child..."

The thought seemed logical to him then. Their daughter was already old enough, and having a younger sibling might be good for her. With that in mind, he had given a gruff "Okay" before leaning in, expressing his agreement with action rather than words.

And yet, the very next day, the same woman who had been moaning beneath him just hours earlier had coldly handed him divorce papers.

Unbelievable.

Shaking the memory from his mind, Dave brought his daughter to a nearby restaurant, where they had breakfast. He then dropped her off at preschool. Only after watching her disappear into the classroom did he finally feel like he could breathe again.

It was astonishing how utterly drained he felt after just one night and one morning with the little girl. It was as though he had been on a ten-day business trip.

The realization struck him: for three years, she—that woman—had been handling this every single day without reprieve.

For a brief moment, a pang of understanding for her struggles flickered in his chest. But he quickly pushed the thought aside, berating himself for even considering her feelings. She had angered him to the point of near madness, and here he was, empathizing with her?

Once he arrived at the office, he had his secretary prepare him a cup of coffee. The taste was almost identical to the ones she used to make, and for a brief moment, it soothed him.

That peace, however, didn't last long. As he opened his laptop to start work, an email with the subject line Divorce Agreement immediately caught his attention.

His jaw clenched as he opened it.

It was from her lawyer.

Scanning the document, his eyes caught a single, infuriating detail—she wanted custody of their daughter. She didn't ask for anything else. No alimony, no property, nothing. Just the child.

A cold laugh escaped his lips as he gripped the mouse tightly.

So that's how she wants to play this, huh?

She seems so carefree, not even bothered by the thought of leaving with nothing. But has she considered what her situation will be after the divorce?

Once she loses the title of "Mrs. Washington" and is no longer part of the Burg Eltz family, what does she have left? Laurent has nothing.

She married him right after graduating from university, and all these years, she's never worked, never gained any work experience. In a city like their hometown, filled with returnees and highly-educated people, whether she can even find a job is questionable.

She wants their daughter? How will she support her?

So, there's no way he's going to let her take their daughter.

He knows very well that their daughter is her weak spot. If he doesn't agree to give her custody, she won't be able to go through with the divorce.

He's certain that without their daughter, she won't survive.

Thinking of this, the anger that had been pressing on his chest suddenly dissipated, and he breathed more easily. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed her number.