Sign The Divorce Papers, Mr. Billionaire

Coralie turned her head slowly. She shifted her dead gaze from Cale to the panting manager.

Mr. Foster skidded to a halt. His eyes darted from the spilled drink to Hayleigh, then to Cale.

Hayleigh pointed a shaking, wet finger at Coralie.

"Throw this crazy bitch out!" Hayleigh screamed, her voice cracking. "Do you know who he is? Throw her out!"

Cale's face darkened. The shrill noise grated on his nerves. He looked down at Hayleigh's hand gripping his expensive suit jacket.

He ripped his arm away, his lip curling in disgust.

"Get out," Cale said to Hayleigh. His voice was low, but the threat in it was absolute.

Hayleigh froze. Her mouth hung open. The mascara tears dripped off her chin.

Mr. Foster didn't need another warning. He snapped his fingers at the security guards.

The two massive men stepped forward. They grabbed Hayleigh by both arms and dragged her toward the service elevator. Her protests faded down the hall.

The corridor fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the men and the muffled bass from the floor below.

The door to Suite 88 swung open. Arnett Houston stepped out, holding a half-empty glass of amber whiskey.

Arnett took in the puddle on the floor and Coralie standing there. A nasty, mocking smile spread across his face. He let out a low whistle.

"Well, well," Arnett drawled, walking up to stand beside Cale. "Did the boring housewife escape the kitchen to come check up on us?"

Coralie didn't flinch. A harsh, humorless laugh escaped her lips.

She took one step toward Arnett. Her eyes dragged up and down his designer clothes.

"Still playing Cale's little follower, Arnett?" Coralie asked. Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Does Cale pay you to hold his drinks, or do you just enjoy being his lapdog?"

Arnett's smile vanished. The blood rushed to his face, turning his neck a blotchy red. His knuckles turned white around his whiskey glass.

Cale reached out and shoved his hand against Arnett's chest, stopping him from stepping forward.

Cale glared at Coralie. He slowly twisted the Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist-a telltale sign he was losing his temper.

"Don't push your luck, Coralie," Cale warned, his voice a dangerous rumble.

Coralie met his glare head-on.

"Why?" she challenged. "You get to play around, but I have to sit quietly at home?"

She turned her back on him. She looked at the terrified club manager.

Coralie reached into her clutch. She pulled out a heavy, solid metal Black Card. She slammed it down onto the base of the marble sculpture. The metal clacked loudly against the stone.

"Mr. Foster," Coralie commanded. Her tone was lazy, arrogant. "Bring me your top-tier VIP menu. I want to order."

Mr. Foster wiped the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand.

"O-of course, ma'am. What kind of drink can I get you?"

Coralie wagged her finger at him. A wicked, cruel smile touched her lips.

"I don't want a drink," she said loudly, making sure her voice carried down the hall. "I want the five youngest, most fit male escorts you have on staff. Send them to a private room."

The air in the hallway turned to solid ice. Arnett's jaw practically hit the floor.

Cale's face went rigid. The veins at his temples throbbed visibly. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Mr. Foster looked at the Black Card-Cale's Black Card-and then looked at Cale in absolute terror.

"Coralie Hyde," Cale growled. He ground her maiden name out between his teeth. The rage rolling off him was palpable.

Coralie feigned innocence. She shrugged her shoulders.

"If my husband can order off the menu, so can I," she said.

She tapped her knuckles impatiently against the marble base.

"Hurry up, Mr. Foster."

Cale snapped. He closed the distance between them in two massive strides.

Coralie stood her ground. She kept her chin high, pointing directly at the VIP menu stand.