The Billionaire Hunting His Ghost Wife

The electronic beep of the suite's front door unlocking cut through the silence.

Kaliyah stopped dead. She held her breath. Her lungs burned. She stepped backward, melting into the deep shadows beside the bathroom door.

Cassian Thorne walked into the suite. Two large men in black suits followed him.

Cassian looked around the empty living room. He turned to the men.

"Wait in the hall. Do not let anyone on this floor."

The men nodded and stepped out. The heavy door clicked shut.

Cassian walked into the bedroom. He pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

Kaliyah peeked around the doorframe. Water dripped from her hair onto the floor.

"The suite is empty," Cassian said into the phone. "But someone definitely spiked Mr. Lott's drink. I need the security feeds from the lobby to the roof. Now."

A low groan came from the bathroom floor.

Bryton shifted. His hand twitched against the wet tiles.

Cassian hung up the phone immediately. He rushed toward the bathroom.

The moment Cassian turned his back and stepped through the bathroom doorway, Kaliyah moved. She slid out of the shadows. Her bare feet made zero sound on the floor. She darted across the room and slipped behind the heavy velvet curtains of the massive four-poster bed.

"Mr. Lott," Cassian's voice came from the bathroom. "Are you alright?"

A string of hoarse, violent curses filled the air. Bryton's voice was rough, like sandpaper rubbing against stone.

"Get out," Bryton snarled. "Get the hell out. I need to clean off this filth."

"Sir, we need to find out who..."

"I said get out!"

Footsteps retreated. Cassian walked out of the bedroom. The main door of the suite opened and closed.

Kaliyah let out a slow, silent breath. Her chest ached.

The sound of the shower turning on high echoed from the bathroom. Bryton was washing her off him.

Kaliyah stepped out from behind the curtains. She walked over to the nightstand to grab her clutch. As she moved, her eyes caught the crumpled men's suit jacket discarded near the screen. The freezing night air outside demanded protection. She snatched the heavy, oversized blazer from the floor and pulled it over her torn blouse, the fabric swallowing her small frame.

A phone lay face up on the polished wood. The screen lit up. The vibration buzzed against the table.

The caller ID displayed a name: Preston Acevedo.

The bathroom door cracked open. Steam rolled out. Bryton's cold, harsh voice cut through the room. He stood leaning heavily against the doorframe, water dripping from his jaw. He held a phone in his trembling hand, the device set to speakerphone as he fought through the lingering haze of the drug.

"Preston," Bryton said. The disgust in his tone was physical. It felt like a slap.

Kaliyah froze. She stared at the phone.

"Do not call me again," Bryton spat. "You are a pathetic social climber. Selling your own daughter to keep your sinking ship afloat makes me sick."

Kaliyah's stomach dropped.

"And that useless, invisible wife you forced on me?" Bryton laughed. It was a cruel, hollow sound. "She is not even fit to shine my shoes. Tell her to keep hiding. If I see her face, I will hand her the divorce papers myself."

Kaliyah's fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. The skin broke. A tiny drop of blood welled up.

The fear and humiliation in her chest vanished. A hot, blinding anger took its place. The blood rushed to her ears.

She opened her clutch. She pulled out her wallet with shaking fingers. She took out a crumpled, worn one-hundred-dollar bill.

She picked up the heavy Montblanc pen resting next to the phone. She pressed the nib against the paper.

She wrote fast. The ink bled slightly into the fabric of the bill.

"Terrible technique. Here is a tip."

She slammed the pen down. She lifted Bryton's heavy platinum watch and shoved the bill underneath it. The green edge of the money stuck out, impossible to miss.

The water in the bathroom shut off.

Heavy footsteps moved toward the door.

Kaliyah looked at the main entrance. Cassian and the guards were right outside. She turned her head toward the glass doors leading to the private terrace.

She walked fast. She pushed the glass door open. The freezing night wind of New York hit her wet clothes. She shivered, but she did not stop.

She walked to the edge of the terrace. She looked over the stone railing. The drop to the street was dizzying. But the terrace of the adjacent building was only about six feet away.

For a normal person, it was suicide. For a former operative, it was a warm-up.

She took three steps back. She took a deep breath.

The bedroom door handle clicked.

Kaliyah sprinted forward. Her foot hit the stone railing. She pushed off with explosive force. Her body launched into the dark, empty air just as Bryton stepped into the bedroom.