My Coldhearted Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage

Doyle's eyes blazed with a mix of fury and something darker, something he couldn't control.

He pushed her harder against the wall, his hand sliding down from her throat, moving aggressively over her waist, intent on proving his dominance.

But as his palm pressed against her lower abdomen, he felt the unnatural stiffness of her muscles. Her skin was ice-cold, covered in goosebumps.

Doyle's hand paused.

His keen senses picked up the subtle, metallic scent in the air. He realized instantly what was happening. She was on her period.

For a split second, the rage vanished from his eyes. It was replaced by a sharp, involuntary flash of panic and guilt. He knew how severe her cramps used to be.

But Doyle Morgan never showed weakness.

He masked the concern instantly, twisting his features into a mask of absolute revulsion.

He snatched his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove. He took a massive step away from her, putting distance between their bodies.

Erika's knees buckled. Without his weight holding her up, she slid down the wall, hitting the floor. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, gasping for air, her whole body shaking from the adrenaline crash.

Doyle stood over her. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a dark silk handkerchief.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to wipe his fingers.

He wiped them over and over, his eyes locked on Erika, making sure she saw exactly how dirty he thought she was.

When he was done, he let the expensive silk drop from his fingers. It landed on the floor right next to Erika's bare foot.

Erika stared at the fabric, her fingernails digging so hard into her palms they drew blood. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing.

"Your time in the secretary pool is over," Doyle said, his voice returning to its cold, corporate cadence.

Erika looked up, her eyes wide.

"Starting tomorrow, you are reassigned to the maintenance department," Doyle declared. "You'll be cleaning the toilets on the executive floors. You'll take out the trash."

Erika's breath hitched. "You can't do that. It violates my contract."

Doyle let out a short, cruel laugh. "I own the building. I own the contract. I am the law, Erika."

He leaned down slightly, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. "And if you even think about quitting, I will personally ensure you are blacklisted from every company in this state. You won't be able to buy a loaf of bread for that bastard sleeping on the bed."

The threat to Connor shattered the last of Erika's defenses.

The defiance drained out of her eyes, replaced by a hollow, crushing despair.

Seeing her finally break didn't give him the satisfaction he craved. Instead, a hollow ache opened up in his chest. He couldn't stand looking at her defeated face for another second.

He turned on his heel and marched out of the bedroom.

Erika heard his heavy footsteps cross the living room. She heard the front door open, and then slam shut with enough force to rattle the windows.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Erika buried her face in her knees. Her shoulders shook violently as the sobs finally tore free from her throat. She cried until her chest ached and her eyes swelled.

A soft rustle came from the bed. Connor kicked his blanket off in his sleep.

Erika's head snapped up. She wiped her face frantically with the back of her hand.

She forced herself to stand up. Her legs wobbled, but she walked to the bed and gently pulled the blanket back over her son.

She turned around, picked up the silk handkerchief from the floor, and threw it into the trash can.

She walked into the tiny bathroom, turned the shower dial to freezing cold, and stepped under the spray fully clothed. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the feeling of his hands.

She would not let him break her.