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

Raven's office door was glass. Anderson didn't knock.

The sound of the door striking its stopper cracked through the space like a gunshot. Raven jerked in her chair, phone pressed to her ear, eyes widening.

"I'll call you back," she said, and hung up. "What the hell do you think you're-"

"Hailee Spence is staying." Anderson's hands found the edge of her desk, gripping hard enough to whiten his knuckles. "I just spent forty minutes convincing her not to torch this firm, and you're giving the account to Luca?"

Raven leaned back. Her composure returned, a mask sliding into place. "Resource reallocation. Luca has connections with the Spence family's legal team. It's a better fit."

"His uncle bought into the firm last month." Anderson's voice was flat. "That's not a better fit. That's nepotism."

"Watch your tone." Raven's eyes hardened. "You're not irreplaceable, Anderson. None of us are."

The door opened behind him. Luca's voice, still breathless from their encounter: "Everything alright in here? I heard shouting."

Anderson didn't turn. He watched Raven's face, watched her see Luca, watched the calculation move behind her eyes. She would protect the investor's nephew. She would sacrifice the difficult employee, the one who asked questions, who refused to play the game.

"Security is on their way," Raven said, her voice trembling slightly with barely suppressed rage. "You assaulted another employee. In front of witnesses."

"Assault?" Anderson laughed, the sound harsh in the small room. "You mean you're firing me because I won't kiss your investor's ring."

"I mean," Raven said, standing, "that you're terminated. Effective immediately. Collect your things and get out before I have the police escort you from the building."

Anderson looked at her. Looked at Luca, smirking in the doorway. Felt something inside him go very still, very cold.

He reached up. His fingers found the lanyard around his neck, the plastic ID card that granted him access to this building, this life, this identity he'd constructed so carefully.

He pulled. The cord snapped.

The card landed on Raven's desk, sliding across polished wood to stop near her hand. Anderson turned and walked out.

The office floor had gone silent. Twenty faces turned away as he passed, suddenly fascinated by screens and paperwork. He reached his desk, pulled open the drawer, and swept the contents into his bag. Phone charger. Emergency protein bar. The photograph of his parents he'd kept meaning to throw away.

The bag zipped closed.

He walked out of the building, through the revolving doors, into the Manhattan afternoon. The street noise hit him like a wall-horns, voices, the endless mechanical breathing of the city.

He stood on the sidewalk, bag over his shoulder, and realized he had nowhere to be.

The lawyer. Three o'clock. He checked his phone-2:15-and raised his hand for a taxi.

Three passed, full. A fourth slowed, then accelerated when someone farther up the block flagged it down.

Anderson started walking.

The address was twelve blocks north. He could make it. The movement helped, gave his mind something to focus on beyond the hollow space where his career had been. Left at the light. Straight through the intersection. Right at the Starbucks with the broken neon sign.

He walked faster. He'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, lost in a haze of grief and the lingering adrenaline of his firing. Massive construction barriers and scaffolding blocked the usual street signs, forcing him down unfamiliar detours. The buildings changed, became older, less maintained. He didn't notice. His navigation app was open, but the GPS icon spun endlessly, searching, unable to find satellites among the concrete canyons.

Anderson stopped.

He looked up. The temporary street signs were confusing, pointing in contradictory directions. The buildings were brick, pre-war, their windows barred. A bodega on the corner sold cigarettes and lottery tickets in a language he couldn't read.

He turned in a slow circle. No Empire State Building visible to orient himself. No familiar landmarks. Just brick and concrete and the distant sound of traffic that could be coming from any direction.

His phone buzzed. 2:47.

Anderson stood at the intersection, his frustration mounting as the physical detours mirrored the sudden derailment of his life. He was suspended between the career he'd lost and the meeting he was now dangerously close to missing, and felt something very like panic begin to rise in his chest.