Divorced The Billionaire, Married His Boss

Chandler dragged her suitcase into the narrow room of the Midtown motel. The wheels caught on the frayed, mustard-colored carpet. The air smelled strongly of industrial bleach mixed with stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose, dropping her bag near the foot of the lumpy mattress. The room was depressing, but as she looked at the peeling wallpaper, the heavy weight that had crushed her chest for a year felt significantly lighter.

She walked into the tiny, cramped bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered above the sink. She turned on the cold water, cupped her hands, and splashed her face repeatedly until her skin felt numb. She grabbed a scratchy towel and patted her face dry. Staring at her reflection, she saw the dark circles under her eyes and the pale, exhausted set of her mouth.

"Not tonight," she whispered to the mirror. Tonight, she needed to forget. She needed to burn the memory of Avery's cold eyes out of her brain.

She opened her suitcase and dug past her sweaters. At the very bottom lay a dress she hadn't worn since before she met Avery. It was a black, skin-tight slip dress with razor-thin straps that dipped dangerously low in the back. She stripped off her conservative clothes and pulled the dress over her head. The silk clung to every curve. She dug a tube of aggressive, blood-red lipstick out of her makeup bag and swiped it across her lips, masking her exhaustion with pure defiance.

Thirty minutes later, an Uber dropped her off in Lower Manhattan. She stood in front of an unmarked black door in a graffiti-covered alley. This was "The Abyss," a high-end underground club notorious for its exclusivity and absolute lack of rules.

She handed her ID and a thick stack of cash to the massive bouncer. He unhooked the velvet rope. Chandler pushed open the heavy door and was instantly hit by a physical wall of sound. The heavy bass of the EDM music vibrated in her teeth and rattled her ribcage. The air was hot, thick with the smell of sweat, expensive cologne, and alcohol.

She pushed her way through the writhing bodies on the dance floor, fighting her way to the long, neon-lit bar.

"Tequila. Neat. Make it a double," she shouted over the music to the bartender.

The bartender, a guy with a neck tattoo and a nametag that read Mickey, slid a heavy glass toward her. Chandler picked it up and threw the burning liquid down her throat. The alcohol scorched a path down to her stomach, making her eyes water and her chest heave.

She slammed the glass down, raising two fingers for another round. As she waited, her eyes wandered up to the second-floor VIP balcony.

Her heart violently seized in her chest.

Standing by the glass railing, looking down at the crowd with an expression of pure disgust, was Avery. Chandler's breath hitched. She suddenly remembered Avery once mentioning "The Abyss" as a gray-area meeting ground for his shadier corporate dealings. Coming here had been a subconscious act of rebellion, a reckless provocation she hadn't fully thought through, and now the devil himself was actually here.

Avery's eyes scanned the bar and locked onto her. Even from a distance, she could see the shock morph into explosive anger on his face. He slammed his drink onto a nearby table and practically ran toward the stairs.

Chandler turned back to the bar, her hands shaking. She reached for her second shot, desperate to drink it before he reached her.

Before her fingers could touch the glass, a large hand clamped down on her wrist. The grip was brutal, the fingers digging painfully into her fragile bones.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Avery hissed, his voice cutting through the heavy bass. He yanked her arm, forcing her to spin around and face him. He looked at her tight dress, his eyes blazing with furious jealousy. "You sign divorce papers and immediately run to a meat market to hook up? Did you have this planned?"

Chandler yanked her arm with all her strength, breaking his grip. She rubbed her bruised wrist, glaring at him with pure hatred. "I am single, Avery! I can sleep with ten men tonight if I want to, and it is none of your damn business!"

The words shattered the last remnants of Avery's control. He grabbed the shot glass off the bar and hurled it at the floor. The glass shattered, the sound lost in the music, but the violence of the action made the people standing nearby back away quickly.

Avery pointed a shaking finger inches from her face. "Do not test my patience, Chandler. You are making a fool of yourself."

Chandler lifted her chin, refusing to show fear. "Go back to the Upper East Side, Avery. Take your control issues and choke on them."

Avery's face twisted in pain and rage. He let out a dark, bitter laugh. "You are going to regret this," he spat. He turned on his heel and shoved his way violently through the crowd, disappearing toward the exit.

The adrenaline drained from Chandler's body instantly. Her knees went weak. She slumped forward, resting her elbows on the sticky bar counter. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she dragged in ragged breaths. A single tear escaped, cutting a hot path down her cheek.

Mickey, the bartender, had watched the entire exchange. He wiped down the counter, leaning in close to her. "Rough night, sweetheart? Boyfriend trouble?" he asked, his voice dripping with fake sympathy.

The alcohol was hitting Chandler's empty stomach hard. Her brain felt fuzzy. She kept her head down, mumbling into her hands. "Ex-husband. I just... I just need a man who listens. Someone who does what he's told and makes me forget everything. Just for tonight."

Mickey's eyes lit up with predatory greed. In the underground club scene, a rich, well-dressed woman asking for a man who "does what he's told" meant only one thing. She wanted to buy a high-end escort.

Mickey lowered his voice, leaning closer. "Say no more, honey. The club can arrange a VIP special host for you. The best in Manhattan. He'll make you feel like a queen."

Chandler's brain was too clouded by the tequila and the emotional crash to process his words properly. She waved her hand dismissively, her head spinning. "Whatever. As long as it makes me happy. Money isn't an issue." She turned away, rummaging in her clutch for a tissue.

Mickey smiled. He turned his back to her, moving to a shadowed corner of his workstation. He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic vial filled with clear powder. It was a heavy party drug, designed to heighten sensory arousal and lower all inhibitions.

He poured the powder into a shaker, mixed it with a bright pink, sweet-smelling cocktail, and poured it into a martini glass. The powder dissolved instantly.

He walked back and slid the glass in front of Chandler. "On the house, beautiful. Drink up. It's our special 'Forget Your Troubles' mix."

Chandler looked at the pink liquid. Without a second thought, she picked it up. "Thanks," she muttered. She took a sip, her finger mindlessly tracing the rim of the glass as she stared blankly at the flashing strobe lights of the dance floor.

Seeing her drink, Mickey pulled a small radio from his belt. He turned his back, lifting the radio to his mouth to call the club's top male model.

At that exact moment, a hidden door behind the VIP section opened. A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a bespoke dark grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and gold-rimmed glasses. Brennan George pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His sharp, predatory eyes scanned the chaotic room like a radar, cutting through the smoke and flashing lights.

His gaze locked onto the bar. He saw Chandler sitting there, her bare back exposed by the thin dress. A muscle feathered in his jaw. His eyes darkened. He stepped down the stairs, his long legs moving with slow, deliberate purpose toward her.

Down at the bar, Mickey pressed the button on his radio. "Dispatch, I need Falcon at the main bar for a VIP-"

A heavy hand slammed down on Mickey's shoulder, spinning him around violently. The radio slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the counter.

Mickey gasped, staring into the murderous face of Avery Osborn. Avery had come back. He grabbed Mickey by the collar of his shirt, hauling him halfway over the bar.

"What the hell did you just put in her drink?" Avery roared.