Marrying My Cheating Ex's Billionaire Boss

Alena burst through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. The sharp morning air hit her face, making her shiver violently. She flagged down a yellow cab, throwing her Brooklyn address at the driver before slamming the door shut.

She sank into the cracked leather seat and immediately plugged her dead phone into her portable charger.

The second the Apple logo disappeared, the screen exploded with notifications. Thirty missed calls. Fifty text messages. All from her mother, her father, and Darrin.

She ignored every single one of them. Her fingers shook as she opened the Safari browser and typed Andrew Spencer into the search bar.

The page loaded. There were no gossip columns. No Instagram accounts. In fact, there was almost nothing concrete at all. For a man who exuded such overwhelming wealth and power, his digital footprint was practically nonexistent. There were only a few vague, buried mentions in old financial forums, referring to an elusive, high-level investor operating behind the scenes of the main Spencer family.

Alena frowned, scrolling frantically through dead-end links and empty corporate directories. She couldn't find a single clear photograph or a definitive title. But then, a chilling memory surfaced. Darrin used to brag, drunk on his own ambition, about a mysterious, untouchable uncle in the main branch of the Spencer family-a ruthless predator who operated entirely in the shadows, the true "Ghost of Wall Street." Darrin had spent his entire life trying to earn just a five-minute meeting with him.

A wave of pure nausea washed over her. Could this be him? The man who had picked her up out of the mud, the man who had just demanded she marry him... could he be the very apex predator Darrin was terrified of? The sheer possibility made her head spin.

She dropped the phone onto the seat. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Why? she thought, panic tightening her throat. Is he using me to punish Darrin's side of the family? Am I just a pawn in some billionaire's sick corporate war?

"Miss, we're here," the driver grunted.

Alena jumped. She looked out the window at her familiar Brooklyn apartment building. She handed the driver a twenty, pulled Andrew's coat tight around her chest, and practically ran to the entrance.

The doorman gave her a concerned look as she hurried past, but she just kept her head down.

She stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the 15th floor. As the numbers ticked up, she tried to force her breathing to slow down. This apartment was the only thing she owned. It was her safe place.

The doors opened. Alena pulled her keys from her purse and walked down the quiet hallway.

She turned the final corner and stopped dead in her tracks.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the two people standing directly in front of her door.

Darrin and Katrina.

Darrin was still wearing his tailored suit from the engagement party, his tie ripped open, his hair a mess. Katrina stood next to him, wrapped in a cashmere shawl, tapping her foot impatiently.

The sight of them made Alena's blood boil. The fear from the cab vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, white-hot rage. She gripped her keys so tight the metal bit into her palm.

Darrin heard her footsteps and snapped his head up. His eyes immediately dropped to the oversized, expensive men's coat draped over her shoulders.

His face contorted with ugly, possessive jealousy. He closed the distance between them in three massive strides and grabbed her wrist.

"Where the hell have you been?" Darrin snarled, his grip bruising her skin. "Whose bed did you crawl out of?"

Alena stared at him. The sheer audacity of his words actually made her laugh.

She ripped her arm out of his grasp. Without a second of hesitation, she swung her hand and slapped him across the face with everything she had.

The crack echoed loudly down the empty hallway. Darrin's head snapped to the side. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his red cheek, his eyes wide with shock.

Katrina shrieked. She rushed forward and grabbed Darrin's arm, glaring at Alena.

"You psycho!" Katrina screamed. "You disappear all night to sleep with some random trash, and you have the nerve to hit him?"

Alena looked at them. They looked like two pathetic, disgusting bugs.

"You fucked my fiancé at my engagement party," Alena said, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. "Do not ever speak to me about morals."

She stepped around them, shoved her key into the lock, and turned it.

"Get away from my door," Alena ordered, not looking back. "Or I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."

Darrin lunged forward. He slammed his hand flat against the wood of the door, forcing it shut just as she pushed it open.

His face changed. The anger vanished, replaced by the sickeningly sweet, manipulative mask he had worn for three years.

"Alena, please," he begged, his voice soft. "Let us in. We need to talk. It's not what you think. I had no choice."

Alena stared at his hand on her door. The veins in her neck throbbed. She slowly turned her head and looked him dead in the eye.

"Fine," she whispered, her voice like ice. "Come inside. Let's hear your excuse."