My Ex-Husband's Regret: The Billionaire's Return

Anderson's head snapped forward as the taxi hit a pothole. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from his temples down to the base of his skull. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, grinding in slow circles. The pressure did nothing. His mouth tasted like stale whiskey and regret. "Hey, watch it back there," he muttered. The driver, a heavyset man with a name tag reading Sal, didn't respond. Anderson slumped against the worn leather seat and watched Manhattan blur past the window. Early morning light cut between buildings in sharp, unwelcome angles. The brakes screamed. Anderson's forehead cracked against the glass. The sound echoed inside his skull like a gunshot. "Jesus Christ!" Sal yelled, leaning on the horn. "You see this idiot? Red light means stop, moron!" A cyclist had shot through the intersection, missing their bumper by inches. Anderson pressed his palm against the window, feeling the vibration of Sal's continued shouting. His headache tripled in intensity. "Turn off the radio," Anderson said. Sal's eyes found his in the rearview mirror. The morning talk show host was shrieking about some political scandal, the volume cranked to maximum. Sal's jaw tightened. He reached out and slapped the power button. The silence that followed felt heavy, accusatory. The meter ticked past forty-seven dollars. Anderson reached for his wallet. His fingers brushed against empty leather. He checked his other pocket, then the inner compartment. Two twenties. A handful of change. Not enough. "Come on," Sal said, watching him in the mirror. "Don't tell me you're gonna-" "I have a card." "Shoulda said that before. These people, I swear. No cash, no tip, nothing." Anderson's jaw clenched. He pulled out his credit card and slammed it against the reader mounted on the back of the front seat. The plastic cracked against metal. Sal flinched. The reader's screen flickered. Processing, it read. Then: Network delay. Please wait. Anderson stared at the spinning icon. Sal stared at Anderson. The taxi idled at the curb, exhaust seeping through the floor vents. Anderson's chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around his ribs and pulled. Thirty seconds passed. The reader beeped. Approved. Anderson shoved the door open before Sal could speak. The morning sun hit his retinas like a physical blow. He stumbled, throwing up one hand to shield his eyes. Spots danced in his vision. Someone collided with his shoulder. Hard. Anderson spun, blinking through the afterimages. A man in a charcoal suit strode past without breaking stride, phone pressed to his ear, briefcase swinging. "Asshole," Anderson breathed. He pulled his trench coat tighter. The wool smelled like last night's bar smoke. His apartment building was three blocks north. He counted the steps in his head, focusing on the rhythm of his own footsteps against the sidewalk. The doorman wasn't at his post. Anderson fumbled in his pocket for his key card. His fingers closed around something sticky. He pulled his hand out. Black grease coated his fingertips, thick and smelling of motor oil. He must have brushed against something in the taxi. He wiped his hand down the front of his coat, leaving dark smears on the tan fabric. He looked up. A woman stood in the shadow of the entrance awning. Black suit, black pumps, hands clasped in front of her like she was attending a funeral. The morning light didn't reach her face. Anderson squinted. The silhouette resolved into features he recognized. Debra Hampton. His sister's former assistant. The woman Elianna used to send when she couldn't be bothered to deliver bad news herself. His stomach dropped. He turned, already scanning the street for another exit. Maybe he could circle around to the service entrance. Maybe- "Anderson." Debra's voice cut through the traffic noise. She stepped out of the shadows, moving fast. Her heels clicked against the concrete. She positioned herself directly in front of the glass doors, blocking his path. Anderson stopped. Three feet separated them. He could smell her perfume, something sharp and professional. "What do you want?" The words came out flat, cold. He kept his hands in his pockets, fingers still sticky with oil. Debra didn't answer immediately. She looked at him with an expression he couldn't read. Her throat moved, swallowing. "Anderson Calhoun." She said his full name. The formality of it, the dryness in her voice, made something cold settle in his chest. His headache receded, replaced by a different kind of pressure. The kind that came before bad news. Debra reached into her bag. The leather was worn at the corners, the same bag she'd carried for six years. She withdrew a thick envelope, brown paper, legal-sized. She held it out. Anderson didn't move. His hands stayed buried in his pockets. "Another severance letter?" He heard the sneer in his own voice. "Elianna running out of ways to tell me I'm not family anymore?" Debra's hand trembled. Just slightly. Enough to make the envelope rustle. Her eyes were red. Anderson's sneer froze on his face. "Elianna," Debra said. Her voice cracked on the second syllable. A garbage truck rumbled past, hydraulics screaming, engine roaring. The noise swallowed whatever came next. Anderson saw Debra's lips move, but he heard nothing. He stepped closer. Close enough to smell the coffee on her breath, close enough to see the tear tracks cutting through her foundation. "What?" Debra closed her eyes. A tear broke free and ran down her cheek. When she opened her eyes again, she looked directly at him. Her voice rose above the dying engine noise, clear and terrible. "Elianna is dead." The words didn't register immediately. Anderson stood there, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for Debra to break into laughter, to tell him this was some twisted joke his sister had orchestrated. Then his ears began to ring. The street sounds faded. The taxi horns, the pedestrian chatter, the distant construction-all of it compressed into a single high-pitched tone that filled his skull. He took a step backward. His heel caught the edge of the entrance step. Anderson felt himself falling. His arms windmilled, searching for balance. The sky tilted. The building facade rushed toward him. Debra lunged forward. Her fingers closed around his sleeve, gripping the wool. The fabric tore with a sound like ripping paper. She didn't stop his momentum. His tailbone hit concrete first. The impact jarred up his spine. His palm slapped against the rough step surface, skin scraping against stone. He felt nothing. He stared up at Debra. Her face was all wrong. No smile, no satisfaction, none of the triumph Elianna's messengers usually carried. Just grief. Raw, unmistakable grief. The envelope lay on the step beside his foot. He could see his sister's handwriting on the front. The familiar sharp angles of her capital letters. Anderson Calhoun. The letters blurred. He blinked, and the blur spread, and he realized his face was wet.