Marrying My Cheating Ex's Billionaire Rival

In the dim cab, Averie Stein stared at her phone, watching the evidence of her fiancee cheating on her. She should have been angry, instead, her face was a blank mask. No tears. No gasping intake of breath. Just a profound, hollowing emptiness where her heart was supposed to be.

The anonymous text message contained a single photo.

A man's hand, which unmistakably belonged to her fiance, Preston Hayes, rested on a glass tabletop. The custom cufflinks she'd given him for their anniversary, tiny silver knots, glinted under the low light. They were one of a kind.

Draped over his hand was a woman's. Slender fingers, nails painted a garish, blood-red, a cheap-looking ring on her index finger. The intimacy of the gesture was a physical blow, sucking the air from Averie's lungs.

Her own hand, resting on her knee, felt ice-cold. The three-carat diamond on her ring finger, a symbol of a promise now seemed to burn against her skin.

"Here we are, miss. The Onyx Club."

The cab driver's voice barely registered. Averie looked up, seeing the discreet, black awning of the exclusive Upper East Side club.

She paid the driver in cash, her movements fluid and unnervingly calm. The late-night breeze caught the silk of her dress as she stepped onto the curb. It was a cold wind, but she felt nothing.

The doorman, a mountain in a bespoke suit, moved to block her way. "Members only tonight, ma'am."

"I'm with Preston Hayes," she said, her voice steady. The name was a key, one she had used countless times. Tonight would be the last.

Recognition flickered in his eyes. He nodded and pulled the heavy door open for her. "Mr. Hayes is in the back, I believe."

The club was a cavern of dark leather and darker secrets, throbbing with the bass of some forgettable electronic song. The air was thick with expensive perfume and cigar smoke.

Averie's eyes scanned the room, ignoring the predatory glances from men at the bar. The photo was her map. She recognized the unique, swirling grain of the polished mahogany bar top from the picture's background.

She moved toward the back, her heels clicking softly on the floor.

And then she saw him.

Preston's back was to her. He was leaning in close to a blonde woman in a dress that was too tight and too short. He was laughing, his head tilted in that charming way he had. The way he used to look at her.

The woman laughed with him, tossing her head back. Kylie Kowalski. A starlet, desperate to climb the social ladder. Averie had seen her at a charity gala last month, clinging to the arm of some aging producer.

Averie's stomach clenched, a tight, painful knot. But her face remained impassive. Her steps didn't falter.

She walked right up to their booth.

Preston was still murmuring something into Kylie's ear, his hand now resting on her bare thigh. He hadn't noticed Averie. He was in his own little world of cheap thrills and easy lies.

It was Kylie who saw Averie first. Her blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed into a look of smug, defiant triumph. A challenge.

Averie met her gaze for a single, cold moment before dismissing her entirely. Her focus landed on the man she was supposed to marry in three months.

"Having fun, Preston?"

Her voice wasn't loud. It was quiet, precise, and it sliced through the noise like a shard of glass.

Preston's entire body went rigid. The smile on his face froze, then crumbled. He turned his head slowly, his eyes wide with a comical, deer-in-the-headlights terror.

"A... Averie?" he stammered, his face draining of color. "What are you doing here? Baby, listen, it's not what it looks like."

He tried to shove Kylie away, a clumsy, panicked movement. But it was far too late. The whole sordid picture was burned into Averie's mind.

She ignored his pathetic excuses. Her gaze drifted to the table, to the glass of amber liquid sitting in front of him. His favorite single malt scotch.

With a deliberate, unhurried motion, she picked up the glass. The condensation was cold against her fingertips.

Preston's eyes followed her hand, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Averie, wait. Let me explain..."

She didn't wait.

She tipped the glass and poured the entire contents over his perfectly coiffed hair.

The scotch ran down his face, dripping from his chin onto his thousand-dollar suit jacket. He sputtered, shaking his head like a wet dog.

A collective gasp went through the surrounding booths. The low chatter of the club died, replaced by a tense, voyeuristic silence. Everyone was watching.

Averie felt their eyes on her, but they didn't matter. Only this final, clean cut mattered.

Slowly, methodically, she began to work the engagement ring off her finger. It caught on her knuckle, and for a heart-stopping second, she thought it wouldn't come off. Then it slid free.

She held it up between her thumb and forefinger, the diamond catching the dim light, a star that had already died.

Then she let it drop.

The ring hit the glass tabletop with a sharp, definitive clink. The sound was louder than a gunshot in the silent room.

"Preston Hayes," she said, her voice clear and carrying. Each word was a perfectly formed piece of ice. "We're done."

She allowed herself a brief glance at Kylie, whose face was now a mask of pale shock. A small, contemptuous smile touched Averie's lips.

Preston lunged for her, trying to grab her wrist. "Averie, please!"

She yanked her arm back as if his touch were poison.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "You disgust me."

Without another word, she turned and walked toward the exit, her spine straight, her head held high. The sound of her heels on the floor was a death knell for their relationship. Three minutes. From entry to exit, the entire execution had taken less than three minutes.

Preston just sat there, soaked in whiskey and shame, the eyes of New York's elite burning into his back.

Averie pushed through the heavy doors and stepped back out into the cold night air. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the first one that felt like it reached her lungs.

She pulled out her phone. She found Preston's contact, the picture of them smiling in the Hamptons mocking her. She pressed “Block.” Then she deleted the number.

Just then, a black Maybach, sleek and silent as a panther, pulled up to the curb in front of her.

The tinted rear window slid down.

A man sat in the back, his face cast in shadow and light. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes that were a deep, unreadable blue. Fielding Everett. Preston's business partner. His biggest rival.

His gaze met hers, intense and assessing.

"Get in the car," he said. It wasn't a request.

Averie's hand tightened on her phone. She didn't know Fielding well—only the version of him she'd seen across boardroom tables and charity galas.

But something in the way he looked at her now, as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment, made her hesitate.

It was the same look he'd given her once before, at a holiday gala two years ago, when he'd walked past her and casually mentioned that the clasp on her bracelet was loose. She'd never told anyone that story. She'd never figured out how he'd noticed.