Divorced The Billionaire, Married His Boss

Chandler stood on the curb outside the Waldorf Astoria, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face. She raised her hand, flagging down a yellow cab that was speeding down Park Avenue. The tires screeched as it pulled over. She yanked the back door open and slid onto the cracked leather seat. "Upper East Side," she told the driver, giving him the address of the penthouse. Her voice was raspy, the aftermath of the dry-heaving and the unshed tears burning her throat. The cab merged back into the heavy Manhattan traffic. Chandler leaned her head against the cold glass of the window. Neon lights from storefronts and streetlamps blurred past her in streaks of red and yellow. She forced her brain to work, mentally listing the items she needed to pack. Clothes. Laptop. Passport. Nothing else. Nothing Avery bought her. The cab pulled up to the sleek, glass-fronted luxury building. Chandler paid the fare and stepped out. The doorman, a kind older man named Thomas, tipped his hat. "Good evening, Mrs. Osborn." Chandler forced the corners of her mouth up into a tight, painful smile. "Good evening, Thomas." She walked past him quickly, swiping her keycard to access the private elevator. The doors opened directly into the penthouse. The massive living room was dark and silent, the floor-to-ceiling windows displaying the glittering skyline. Chandler did not turn on the main chandelier. She flipped a single switch on the wall, illuminating a dim sconce in the entryway. She walked straight past the custom Italian leather sofas and the grand piano, heading directly for the master closet. She bypassed the rows of designer dresses, the Chanel bags, and the rows of Louboutins. She dropped to her knees, pulling open the bottom drawer of a built-in cabinet. She dragged out a battered black suitcase she had owned since college. She threw it open on the floor and began tossing in her old jeans, plain t-shirts, and comfortable sweaters. She grabbed her laptop from her desk and shoved it into the front pocket. She walked into the master bathroom to grab her toothbrush. On the marble vanity sat a silver framed photograph-the only picture of her and Avery in the entire apartment. It was taken on a beach in Malibu, right after they secretly married. Avery was actually smiling at her. Chandler's hand hovered over the frame. Her chest tightened, a sharp ache radiating through her ribs. She pressed her lips together, grabbed the frame, and slammed it face-down onto the marble counter. The sound echoed loudly in the quiet room. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. An email from Mark. The subject line read: Draft - Osborn Divorce Settlement. Chandler walked out of the bathroom and sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed. She opened the PDF. Her eyes scanned the dense legal jargon rapidly. She scrolled straight to the division of assets. Party A (Chandler Gentry) waives all rights to spousal support, alimony, and any claim to the assets of Party B (Avery Osborn). She was leaving with exactly what she came with: nothing. She stood up and walked into Avery's home office. She turned on his heavy, industrial printer. The machine hummed to life. She hit print on her phone. A few seconds later, the smell of fresh ink filled the air as two copies of the contract slid into the tray. Chandler picked up the warm papers. She grabbed a heavy Montblanc pen from Avery's desk. She flipped to the last page. Without a single hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name in bold, sharp strokes on both copies. The electronic keypad on the front door beeped loudly. Chandler froze. The heavy oak door swung open. Avery walked in, bringing the smell of expensive whiskey and the cold night air with him. He loosened his tie, looking exhausted and irritated. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the black suitcase sitting in the middle of the living room rug. Avery ripped the tie completely off his neck and threw it onto the sofa. "Really, Chandler?" he sneered, his voice echoing in the large space. "Packing a bag? This dramatic routine is getting incredibly old." Chandler did not argue. She walked out of the office, her face a mask of absolute calm. She walked up to the marble coffee table and slapped the two signed copies of the divorce agreement down. The papers slid across the smooth surface, stopping right in front of Avery. Avery's eyes dropped to the documents. The bold heading Marital Settlement Agreement stared back at him. His pupils contracted violently. The arrogant smirk wiped off his face instantly. The situation he thought was a childish tantrum had just crashed into reality. He snapped his head up, staring at Chandler. He searched her eyes, looking for the bluff, looking for the tears. He found nothing but a dead, empty stare. A sudden, violent surge of agitation hit Avery. He snatched the papers off the table, his eyes scanning the text aggressively. When he read the clause about her taking absolutely nothing, a harsh, mocking laugh ripped from his throat. "Waiving all assets? What is this, Chandler? A new negotiation tactic? Playing the martyr to make me feel guilty?" He threw the papers back onto the table. They scattered across the marble. He stepped closer to her, his tall frame casting a dark shadow over her. "Listen to me very carefully," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "If you walk out that door tonight with that suitcase, the Osborn family will make sure you never step foot back in this world. You will have nothing." Chandler did not step back. She tilted her head up, meeting his furious gaze with pure contempt. "I already have nothing in this cage, Avery. Leaving this miserable, lying marriage is exactly what I want." Her words sliced straight through his massive ego. Avery's jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped under his skin. The veins in his forehead bulged. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his own fountain pen. He uncapped it with a sharp snap. He bent over the coffee table, grabbed the papers, and violently slashed his signature across the bottom of both pages. He pressed down so hard the sharp metal nib tore right through the thick paper, scratching the marble underneath. He was trying to hide the sudden, cold panic rising in his chest with anger. He snatched one copy and shoved it hard against Chandler's chest. "Take it," he spat, his voice trembling slightly with rage. "My lawyers will file it with the court first thing tomorrow morning. Have a nice life in the gutter." Chandler caught the paper before it fell. She looked down at his aggressive, torn signature. She folded the document carefully, treating it like a winning lottery ticket, and slid it into the inner pocket of her leather tote bag. She turned around and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. The plastic wheels ground against the hardwood floor, making a dull, heavy sound. Every step she took toward the door felt like a physical chain snapping off her body. When she reached the entryway, she stopped. She set the suitcase down. She lifted her left hand. Her fingers gripped the heavy, flawless three-carat diamond engagement ring Avery had given her. She pulled it over her knuckle. She placed the ring onto the glass key tray on the console table. The metal band hit the glass with a sharp, high-pitched clink. The sound echoed through the silent apartment. It hit Avery like a physical blow to the back of the knees. He flinched, taking an involuntary step forward, his hand twitching at his side. Chandler did not look back. She pushed the heavy front door open, stepped into the hallway, and let the door click shut behind her. She left Avery standing alone in the massive, empty penthouse. The moment the elevator doors closed, the adrenaline crashed. Chandler's knees buckled slightly. Hot tears finally spilled over her eyelashes, burning her cold cheeks. She lifted the back of her hand and scrubbed them away violently. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing oxygen into her tight lungs. She walked out of the building into the freezing wind. She pulled out her phone, opened the Uber app, and requested a ride. She typed in the address of a cheap, no-name motel in Midtown. While she waited on the curb, she opened her contacts. She found Avery's name. She hit Block Caller. She opened Instagram. She blocked him there too. She severed every digital tie she had to him. A black SUV pulled up to the curb. Chandler hauled her heavy suitcase into the trunk, her muscles burning from the effort. She climbed into the backseat and slumped against the cheap fabric, closing her eyes. "Do you want the radio on, miss?" the driver asked, looking at her through the rearview mirror. "No, thank you," Chandler whispered. She turned her head, watching the dark streets of Manhattan roll by. Her chest still ached, her stomach was empty, but beneath the pain, a strange, terrifying sense of freedom began to bloom in her blood.