My Coldhearted Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage

Erika's fingers trembled as she forced the plastic button through the frayed buttonhole of her gray blazer. The fabric was thin, offering no protection against the biting draft leaking through the cracked window of their Brooklyn apartment. She stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She looked exactly like what she was: a desperate woman clinging to the edge of survival. "Mommy." Erika looked down. Five-year-old Connor stood beside her leg. He reached up on his tiptoes, his small hand holding out a small pink canister of pepper spray. His dark eyes-eyes that looked entirely too much like the ghosts of her past-were wide with an anxiety no child should carry. A heavy lump formed in Erika's throat. She swallowed hard, forcing the tightness down, and crouched to his eye level. She took the pepper spray and shoved it into her worn canvas tote bag. "Thank you, baby," she whispered, pasting on a smile that made her facial muscles ache. "I won't be long. Lock the door the second I leave, okay?" Connor nodded solemnly. Erika pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the scent of cheap baby shampoo. She stood up, her spine snapping straight. She had to do this. She needed the health insurance. She needed the paycheck. She turned and walked out the rickety wooden door. The winter wind hit her instantly, slicing through her thin collar. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest as she hurried down the dimly lit hallway, stepping over an empty beer bottle. Three blocks later, she descended into the subway station. The smell of stale urine and burnt coffee assaulted her senses. She squeezed into the packed train car. Her hand dove into her tote bag, her fingers wrapping protectively around the velvet jewelry box hidden at the bottom. As the train rattled toward Manhattan, the worn sneakers and stained work boots around her were slowly replaced by polished leather shoes and designer heels. Erika instinctively pulled her frayed sleeves down to hide her wrists. When she stepped out of the station, the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Morgan Group building loomed over her. The sheer scale of it made her lungs tight. She took a shallow breath, pushed through the revolving doors, and walked across the pristine marble floor toward the reception desk. Alex, the head receptionist, didn't even look up. He continued typing on his keyboard, his manicured fingers flying. "Excuse me," Erika said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm the runner from the secretary pool. I have a delivery for Ms. Slattery. My supervisor handed me this directly. Said it was a strict order from the top floor and not to ask questions." Alex finally raised his eyes. He dragged his gaze up and down her cheap suit, his upper lip curling in undisguised disgust. He picked up the phone, dialing a penthouse extension. "Yes, the... runner is here," he drawled, making sure Erika heard the mockery in his tone. "Very well." He hung up and pointed a pen toward the back hallway. "Freight elevator. Don't track dirt on the carpets." Erika's jaw tightened. She didn't argue. She turned and walked to the service hallway. The freight elevator smelled strongly of industrial bleach. Erika watched the digital numbers climb higher and higher. Her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. Her grip on the velvet box turned her knuckles stark white. The doors slid open. She stepped out into a private foyer lined with French doors. She pressed the brass doorbell. The door was yanked open. A cloud of heavy, sickeningly sweet floral perfume hit Erika's face. Taryn Slattery leaned against the doorframe, draped in a custom silk robe that cost more than Erika's rent for a year. Taryn looked down her nose at Erika. She didn't step aside. She just held out her hand, her long acrylic nails tapping impatiently. Erika kept her face completely blank. She pulled the velvet box from her bag and placed it in Taryn's palm. Taryn snatched it. She flipped the lid open. Her eyes widened as the massive, custom-cut sapphire brooch caught the hallway light. "Oh, my god," Taryn gasped, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Doyle is so predictable. He feels guilty for working late last night." At the sound of Doyle's name, a sharp, physical pain pierced Erika's chest. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. Taryn pinned the brooch to the lapel of her silk robe. She turned slightly, checking her reflection in the mirrored wall, making sure Erika had a front-row seat to her gloating. "Sign the delivery receipt, please," Erika said, her voice flat and hollow. Taryn rolled her eyes. She snatched the clipboard from Erika's hand, scribbled her name, and tossed the paper back. It fluttered to the floor. Erika didn't flinch. She slowly bent down and picked up the paper, keeping her back perfectly straight. Taryn sneered, clearly annoyed by Erika's lack of humiliation. "Don't look so miserable. And don't get any ideas. Women like you are invisible to men like Doyle." "You have nothing to worry about," Erika said coldly. She shoved the paper into her bag and turned toward the elevator. Taryn scoffed, reaching for the door handle. But as she looked down at the brooch one last time, her eyes caught the tiny, engraved letters on the back of the silver setting. Erika pressed the elevator button, desperate to escape the suffocating air.