Divorced The Billionaire, Married His Boss

Avery's knuckles turned white as he twisted the fabric of Mickey's shirt. He hauled the bartender further over the sticky counter, knocking over a row of clean glasses. They shattered on the floor. Avery's chest heaved, his gray eyes wild with a violent, possessive rage. "I asked you a question! What did you put in her drink?"

Mickey's face drained of color. He choked, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Avery's iron grip. "Nothing! Man, chill out! It's just a little party favor. A booster! The lady said she wanted to have some fun, to buy a guy for the night! I was just helping her out!"

The words hit Avery like a physical punch to the gut. Buy a guy for the night. The jealousy that had been simmering in his blood erupted into a blinding inferno. His grip on Mickey's shirt tightened until the fabric began to tear. He shoved Mickey backward with brutal force. The bartender crashed into the liquor display behind him, sending bottles tumbling to the floor with a deafening crash.

Avery didn't look back. He whipped his head around, his eyes frantically scanning the bar stools.

Chandler's seat was empty.

Panic spiked in Avery's chest. He pushed through the crowd, his eyes darting across the dark, strobe-lit room.

Across the club, Chandler was walking unsteadily, holding the pink cocktail in her hand. She froze, her eyes locking onto a familiar silhouette a few tables away. The sharp, severe posture, the sleek bob haircut-it looked exactly like Judith Goldsmith, the senior legal counsel from the Aethelred Group, the company where Chandler worked in the PR department. Chandler's heart skipped a terrifying beat. She didn't dare get closer to confirm if it was really her. Her mind instantly spiraled, flashing back to the strict Morality Clause in her employment contract. If someone like Judith caught her here, in this tight, revealing dress, heavily intoxicated and trying to buy an escort, Aethelred would terminate her immediately. They would sue her for breach of contract, and the massive fines would leave her homeless. The sheer terror of losing her only lifeline pierced through her alcohol-fogged brain. She had just signed away everything she owned. She was completely broke. She couldn't risk being seen.

She hastily turned her back to the booth, her hands trembling as she brought the pink cocktail to her lips and took a large, desperate gulp. The liquid was sickeningly sweet, burning the back of her throat. She set the empty glass down on a passing waiter's tray. As her hand left the glass, a sudden, violent wave of heat exploded in her stomach. It wasn't the warm buzz of tequila. It was a searing, unnatural fire that rapidly spread through her veins, shooting down to her fingertips and toes.

Her breath hitched. She reached up and pulled at the thin straps of her dress, suddenly feeling like the fabric was suffocating her. Her lungs burned as she tried to pull in air. The strobe lights in the club began to smear into long, blinding streaks of color. The heavy bass of the music no longer sounded like sound; it felt like a physical hammer beating against her heart. Her skin felt overly sensitive, every brush of air causing a strange, painful tingle.

"I... I need to get out of sight. Restroom," Chandler gasped out to herself, her voice sounding distorted, like she was speaking underwater. She pushed herself away from the crowded bar area. Her legs felt like jelly. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She stumbled away blindly, desperate to escape the phantom gaze of her company's legal counsel, disappearing into the dark, narrow hallway that led to the restrooms.

The hallway was quieter, the air slightly cooler, but the fire inside Chandler was growing out of control. The drug was a heavy aphrodisiac mixed with a hallucinogen. It was stripping away her motor skills and her rational thought, replacing them with a desperate, burning physical need.

She leaned heavily against the wall, dragging her hand along the cool plaster to keep herself upright. Her vision was swimming. Up ahead, a tall figure stepped into the hallway, blocking her path.

It was Avery. He had finally found her.

Avery looked at her. He saw her flushed skin, her heavy, erratic breathing, and the way her dress was slipping off her shoulder. Mickey's words echoed in his head: She wanted to buy a guy.

Disgust curled Avery's upper lip. He took a long stride forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her bare skin. "Is this what you wanted?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "Are you really going to throw away your dignity just to get back at me? You look pathetic."

The rough shake made Chandler's head spin violently. The heat inside her flared, her body instinctively wanting to lean into his cold hands, but his cruel words cut through the haze just enough to trigger her self-preservation.

She planted her hands on his chest and pushed with all the strength she had left. "Get... get away from me," she slurred. Her voice was soft, breathy, ruined by the drug.

To Avery, her weak push felt like a pathetic game. It felt like she was playing hard to get while simultaneously begging for attention. His pride recoiled. He let out a harsh, cold laugh. He released her shoulders abruptly, stepping back and letting his hands drop to his sides.

Without his support, Chandler lost her balance. Her knees buckled. She slid down the wall, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud. She curled her arms around her stomach, panting heavily, dark spots dancing at the edges of her vision.

Avery stood over her, looking down at her crumpled form. The urge to pick her up fought a violent war with his massive ego. His ego won. He adjusted his cuffs, his face an impenetrable mask of ice.

"You make me sick," Avery said. He turned his back on her and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded completely.

Chandler lay on the floor, the drug consuming her last shred of sanity. A whimper tore from her throat. The heat was unbearable. She closed her eyes, feeling the darkness pulling her under.

Just as her consciousness began to slip, a pair of expensive, custom-made leather shoes stepped into her line of sight.

A shadow fell over her. The faint, crisp scent of cedarwood and expensive tobacco cut through the stale air of the hallway. A pair of strong, muscular arms slid under her armpits. With effortless power, the man lifted her off the floor, pulling her flush against a hard, broad chest.