Divorcing The Tycoon: The Genius Designer

"It wasn't me..."

"Yeah?"

Christo grabbed her hand and dragged her into the bedroom, pinning her to the bed.

You don't even need to think about what he's going to do.

The blinding morning light pierced through the sheer curtains, stinging Alessa's eyes.

She sat up in the middle of the huge, messy bed, biting her lip to suppress a groan, as the bruises on her shoulders and spine throbbed as if in protest.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Christopher emerged, already wearing a crisp, custom-made shirt. His face wore a mask of utter indifference as he adjusted his dark blue silk tie.

He walked to the dressing table, picked up his wallet, took out a black American Express card with no spending limit, and casually tossed it onto the bedside table.

The cold plastic edge of the card bounced and grazed the back of Alessa's hand. This physical contact sent a sharp pang of humiliation through her.

“Go buy yourself something you like. Consider it a reward for your cooperation last night,” Christopher said, without even glancing at her.

"Don't do anything against my will. And don't hurt Della."

Alessa grabbed the black card from the bedside table and slammed it against the bedroom door with all her might.

The plastic card slammed against the wooden door with a dull thud, just as Christopher stepped out. He didn't even stop; he just kept walking.

The heavy silence in the room was broken by the buzzing of Alessa's cell phone on the mattress. The screen lit up, displaying the name of her best friend, Sloan.

Alessa cleared her throat and answered the phone.

“Hello,” she said hoarsely.

“You sound terrible. Come to Soho House and have a drink with me. You need to relax,” Sloan ordered.

"Okay. I'll be right there."

Alessa walked into her enormous walk-in closet. She skipped over the casual wear and chose a high-necked silk blouse, which she needed to use to cover the new purple bruises on her collarbone.

An hour later, her taxi stopped in front of Soho House, a private establishment in Lower Manhattan.

She went to the front desk, showed her Sloan membership card, and had the receptionist guide her to the private lounge area on the second floor.

Her high heels sank into the thick wool carpet. As she walked down the dimly lit corridor, a familiar, coquettish laugh drifted from one of the rooms.

Alessa stopped in her tracks. Her heart pounded wildly against her ribs as the trauma of the previous night resurfaced.

She peered through the half-open carved wooden door. Through the warm, soft light, her gaze settled on the luxurious velvet sofas.

Diana sat in the center, wearing a flawless white dress, surrounded by a group of wealthy Manhattan socialites.

Diana's long, meticulously manicured fingers were gently stroking a dazzling Cartier panther necklace, which adorned her collarbone.

“My God, Dinah, so glamorous! Which Wall Street billionaire is spending all his money on you?” one of the socialites exclaimed.

Diana lowered her eyes, a shy yet deliberate blush creeping onto her cheeks.

“He treats me like his whole world,” Diana whispered.

Alessa's stomach churned violently. Bile rose in her throat. The image of that cold black card being thrown at her this morning clashed cruelly with the millions of dollars worth of jewelry that now shone around Diana's neck.

She felt nauseous. She turned sharply to leave, but the tip of her shoe struck the edge of a heavy brass decorative vase in the hallway.

The vase tilted and crashed against the wall with a hollow bang.

The noise immediately drew the attention of everyone in the private room.

Diana turned her head. When she saw Alessa standing in the corridor, a malicious glint flashed in her eyes.

Diana stood up, smoothed her white dress, and walked to the door. She looked at Alessa with an expression of pure pity.

“Dr. Ward? What are you doing here?” Diana asked, her voice loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

The socialites behind her began to whisper among themselves, casting mocking glances at the ordinary doctor who dared to intrude into their elite circle.

Alessa forced herself to straighten her back. She met Diana's hypocritical gaze with icy calm.

“I was just passing by. I don’t need to report my whereabouts to a patient,” Alessa retorted, her voice calm.

Tears welled up in Diana's eyes immediately. She dramatically took a half step back, clutching her chest as if she had just been punched.

Christopher emerged from the shadows at the end of the corridor. He held a crystal whiskey glass in one hand, his posture relaxed, yet his aura intimidating.

Christopher's icy gaze completely bypassed Diana and pierced straight at Alessa, who was gripping the shoulder strap of her handbag tightly, trying to remain calm.

He didn't shout, or even raise his voice.

“Security,” Christopher commanded, his tone utterly cold. “Take this unauthorized person away from the VIP floor immediately.”