Divorced By The Boss I Slept With

Arnetta walked quickly through the restaurant, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She pushed open the heavy door to the women's restroom and locked it behind her. The bathroom was a sanctuary of gold fixtures and warm, flattering light. She walked over to the marble sink and turned on the cold water. She splashed it onto her wrists, trying to lower her racing pulse. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed red from anger. Her eyes were bright and furious. She dried her hands on a thick linen towel. She picked up her phone and unlocked it. The text message from the lawyer's burner number—a cold follow-up to the earlier call—was now on the screen, demanding her signature. A wild, reckless idea sparked in her mind. If her husband thought she was a greedy, wild woman, she would give him exactly what he expected. She would show him that she didn't care about his money or his threats. She had moved on. She opened the camera app on her phone. She walked out of the restroom and crept back down the dimly lit hallway toward the VIP booth. She stopped just outside the velvet curtains. A decorative, semi-transparent silk screen separated the hallway from the booth. Next to the screen was a large, polished bronze mirror that reflected the interior of the booth. Arnetta peeked through the gap in the silk screen. Brennan was sitting in the booth, leaning back against the leather, having reclaimed his jacket from the attendant to ward off the draft. He was looking down at his own phone, his face illuminated by the screen's glow. His broad shoulders filled the frame. He was wearing a highly distinctive, custom-tailored navy suit with a subtle pinstripe pattern. Arnetta raised her phone. She angled the camera toward the bronze mirror. She adjusted her position until her own reflection appeared in the foreground of the shot. She pulled the collar of her gray jacket down slightly, exposing the smooth skin of her collarbone. She bit her lower lip, making it look red and swollen. In the background of the mirror's reflection, perfectly positioned right behind her shoulder, was Brennan. Because of the sharp angle and the dim, moody lighting of the restaurant, his face was completely cut off. She deliberately angled the shot so a decorative amber wall sconce cast a strange, distorting glare directly across the fabric of his jacket. The harsh light completely obscured the subtle pinstripe pattern and altered the deep navy color into an unrecognizable, shadowy black in the reflection. All that was visible was the massive, imposing shoulder of a man, looking intimately close to her. It looked exactly like a secret, illicit photo taken in the middle of a romantic rendezvous. Arnetta held her breath and tapped the shutter button. She looked at the photo. It was blurry, dark, and the glare masked any identifying details of the clothing. It was incredibly suggestive and completely untraceable. It was perfect. She opened the text thread with the "Vampire Husband." She attached the photo. She typed a single sentence: Get used to the horns, darling. I'm busy. She hit send. The moment the message went through, she went into the settings and permanently blocked the number. A rush of adrenaline and pure, vindictive satisfaction flooded her veins. She took a deep breath, pulled her collar back up, and smoothed her hair. She walked around the screen and stepped back into the VIP booth. As she slid into her seat, Brennan's private phone-resting in the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket-vibrated silently. Brennan didn't notice. He was still looking at his work phone, reading an email. Arnetta picked up her water glass and took a calm sip. The anger was gone, replaced by the sharp focus of her mission. She needed to get back to work. "Mr. Kirkland," Arnetta said, her voice returning to its professional cadence. Brennan locked his phone and looked up. "Are you finished having a meltdown over your pathetic husband?" "Completely," Arnetta said with a tight smile. "I wanted to ask you about Vanguard's internal structure. Specifically, the acquisition strategies." Brennan leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "You are very persistent." "I am curious about The Maverick," Arnetta said, dropping the name like a bomb. Brennan's entire body went rigid. The casual arrogance vanished from his face. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin. His dark eyes turned instantly cold and guarded. "Why are you asking about him?" Brennan demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. Arnetta forced herself to look starry-eyed and naive. "Everyone in the industry talks about him. The way he handled the tech buyout last year was genius. He is a legend. I just wondered what it is like to work with someone that brilliant." Brennan stared at her. He saw the genuine admiration in her eyes. It was a bizarre, conflicting sensation. This woman, who he despised, was sitting here openly worshiping his alter-ego. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He reached up and adjusted his silver cufflink, a physical tell that he was feeling pressured. "He is not a legend," Brennan said dismissively. "He is just a man. A man who prefers to be left alone." "But surely you meet with him?" Arnetta pressed, leaning closer. "Does he work in the building? Does he have a private office?" "No," Brennan snapped, cutting her off. "He works remotely. I communicate with him exclusively through encrypted channels. No one sees him. Not even me." Arnetta hid her disappointment. He was stonewalling her perfectly. The waiter appeared, sensing the tension, and silently placed the leather bill folder on the table. Brennan didn't even look at the total. He pulled a heavy black titanium card from his wallet and dropped it onto the leather. Ten minutes later, they were standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. The night air was freezing. The Maybach pulled up to the curb. The doorman opened the back door. "Get in," Brennan ordered. "My driver will take you home." Arnetta took a step back. The thought of sitting in that enclosed space with him again made her skin crawl. "Thank you, but no," Arnetta said politely. "I need to walk off the dinner. The subway is close." Brennan looked at her, his eyes narrowing. He didn't argue. He stepped into the back of the Maybach and the door slammed shut. Arnetta stood on the curb and watched the red taillights disappear into the Manhattan traffic. She let out a long, shaky breath. She had survived the dinner, and she had struck a blow against her husband. She turned and walked toward the subway, completely unaware of the ticking time bomb she had just planted in Brennan's pocket.