My Billionaire Ex Keeps Me While Loving Someone Else

Two days later, my bones ached from the late shift at Lumen. The chemo was still humming in my veins, making my stomach roll with constant, low-grade nausea. I poured Adonis's black coffee and carried it into his glass-walled office.

He was already at his desk, staring out the window. I set the mug down next to a thick, leather-bound folder. The bold letters on the cover caught my eye. *Acquisition: Apex Esports Organization*.

I blinked. Apex was Kylian's team. I didn't think much of it. A tech mogul buying a gaming company wasn't unusual. It was just business.

An hour later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I stepped into the empty breakroom and answered.

"Si, I'm dying," Kylian groaned. He sounded exhausted.

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Management changed. Some new investor bought a controlling stake yesterday. They just handed us a new schedule. It's brutal, Si. Three time zones in two weeks. Tokyo, Berlin, then L.A. Back-to-back qualifiers. I won't have a free day until November."

I frowned. "That's awful. But you wanted to play in the big leagues."

"Yeah, but this is a meat grinder," he complained. "I won't even have time to call you. If I'm not playing, I'll be sleeping on a plane."

"Just focus on the games," I said softly. "I'll be here when you get back."

I hung up. I looked through the glass walls of the breakroom. Adonis was standing by his desk. He was looking right at me. His face was perfectly blank. Cold. He tapped a silver pen against the Apex file. A chill ran down my spine. But I brushed it off. It had to be a coincidence.

On Friday, Adonis scheduled a team lunch at a high-end steakhouse in Midtown.

The restaurant was dark and loud. It smelled like roasted garlic, seared meat, and expensive red wine. The heavy scents hit the back of my throat, making my stomach churn. I swallowed hard and focused on breathing through my mouth.

Adonis sat at the head of the large leather booth. He made me sit on his immediate right. He placed Haisley right next to me. Marcus Vega and three vice presidents filled the rest of the table.

The conversation was strictly business. Algorithms. Profit margins. Quarter-three projections. I kept my eyes on my plate. I pushed a piece of asparagus around with my fork. I was so tired.

Suddenly, the table went quiet. Adonis leaned back in his chair. He swirled the dark wine in his glass. His eyes locked onto me.

"Sierra," he said.

His voice was smooth, but it cut through the room like a blade.

I looked up. "Yes, Mr. Hunter?"

He reached over and placed his hand over Haisley's. She didn't flinch, but her fingers stayed stiff under his palm.

"I need a recommendation," he said. The temperature in his voice dropped to freezing. "I'm looking for a jeweler for an engagement ring. Since you seem to have good taste in things that don't belong to you, I thought you might know a place."

The silence in the booth became suffocating. Marcus stared down at his water glass. One of the VPs shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Under the table, my hands curled into tight fists. My nails bit into my palms until they ached. The heat rushed to my chest. He wanted me to break. He wanted me to cry in front of his executives. He wanted to see the regret bleed out of me.

I took a slow, shallow breath. I kept my face perfectly still.

"Of course," I said evenly. "Cartier on Fifth Avenue offers excellent bespoke services. Their custom pieces usually start around fifty thousand. If you prefer vintage cuts, Fred Leighton on Madison is exceptional. I can arrange a private viewing for you and Ms. Garcia this afternoon."

I didn't blink. I didn't look away.

Adonis's jaw tightened. A muscle leaped in his cheek. His dark eyes burned into mine. He hated my answer. He hated my calm voice. He hated that I didn't shatter for him.

Beside me, Haisley picked up her water glass. She took a long, slow sip. She didn't look at Adonis. She just watched the ice clink against the crystal.

When lunch finally ended, the executives stood up to leave. I excused myself and walked quickly to the restroom. I needed a minute. My stomach was twisting into painful, sharp knots.

I pushed through the heavy oak door. The bathroom was empty. It was quiet, with marble sinks and soft, warm lighting. I walked over to the counter and gripped the cool stone edge. I closed my eyes and breathed through the nausea.

The door opened. Heels clicked sharply against the tile.

I opened my eyes. Haisley walked over to the sink next to mine. She set her designer clutch on the counter. She didn't offer me a sympathetic smile. She wasn't that kind of woman.

She turned on the tap and washed her hands.

"You know," she said, almost idly. "For a man who is supposedly madly in love with me, he's remarkably hands-off."

I froze. I looked at her in the mirror.

She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and patted her hands dry. "He hasn't kissed me once. Not even for the cameras. Not even when the paparazzi are practically sitting on our laps."

My heart gave a strange, hard thump. "I don't see how that is my business, Ms. Garcia."

"Call me Haisley," she said. She pulled a tube of red lipstick from her clutch. "And I'm just making an observation. It's professionally inconvenient for me. It makes the whole 'swept off our feet' narrative very hard to sell to the press."

She applied the lipstick with practiced precision. She popped her lips together. Then, she met my eyes in the mirror. She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow.

It wasn't a complaint. It was a hint. A massive, glaring hint.

She dropped the lipstick back into her clutch and snapped it shut. "Have a good afternoon, Sierra."

She walked out. The heavy door swung shut behind her.

I stood there alone. The silence rushed back into the room. I stared at my reflection. My skin was pale. There were dark circles under my eyes. I looked sick. I looked like a ghost of the girl Adonis used to love.

*He hasn't kissed me once.*

I pressed my fingertips hard against my collarbone. I couldn't let myself hope. Hope was dangerous. Hope would make the dying hurt more. But as I stood under the harsh bathroom lights, a tiny, stubborn spark ignited in my chest. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put it out.