The Billionaire's Regret: Chasing His Ex-Wife

Aryana Mason POV:

The necklace around my throat felt heavier than a shackle, yet for the first time in four years, the chain didn't belong to Cameron O'Neill.

I stood before the floor-length mirror in the hotel suite, staring back at a woman I barely recognized.

She wasn't the terrified girl who had broken her leg in the dirt.

She was cold. She was sharp. She was expensive.

The dress was a sheath of midnight silk, simple enough to look boring on anyone else, but on me, it was armor.

And then there were the sapphires.

Sarah had draped them around my neck an hour ago.

"Middle Eastern royalty," she had said, fastening the clasp with a satisfying click. "They symbolize truth and celestial hope. And they cost three times more than that emerald Cameron bought his whore."

I touched the center stone. It was icy against my skin.

It felt like power.

I walked into the ballroom for Cameron's thirtieth birthday.

The air smelled of lilies and old money.

Heads turned.

I saw the whispers ripple through the crowd like a wave. They were looking at the jewels. They were calculating the value.

They realized, with a collective intake of breath, that the O'Neill family didn't own these stones.

I caught my reflection in a pane of glass near the bar.

I didn't look like a victim. I looked like a widow who had already buried her husband.

Then the air soured.

Kacie Chavez materialized from the crowd.

She was wearing gold. Too much of it.

She looked like a trophy that was trying too hard to shine.

She stopped in front of me, her eyes dragging down to my neck.

The jealousy in her gaze was so potent I could almost taste it. It was bitter, like burnt sugar.

"Found a new sponsor already?" she sneered, stepping into my personal space.

She reached out, almost touching the sapphire, but pulled back at the last second.

"Don't forget, Aryana. You still have the Don's brand on you."

"I am not cattle, Kacie," I said, my voice steady. "And you are standing in my light."

She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound.

"You think you are so high and mighty just because you have a lawyer?"

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a photograph.

She held it up, angling it just for me to see.

My stomach dropped.

It was me. In our bedroom. Sleeping.

But the angle was wrong. It was taken from the doorway.

I was exposed. Vulnerable.

I felt a phantom itch crawl over my skin, as if a thousand insects were moving under my dress.

"You look so peaceful when you don't know you're being watched," Kacie whispered.

She flipped the photo over.

"I have videos, too. The kind that Cameron likes to make when you've had too much wine."

I stopped breathing.

"If you don't shut your mouth and play the good little wife tonight," she hissed, leaning close to my ear, "these go viral. Every senator, every judge, every rival boss will see exactly what the Don's wife looks like when she begs."

She pulled back, her smile toxic.

"I have more than one O'Neill in my bed, sweetie. I have friends. You have nothing."

My hands shook at my sides.

She was threatening to strip me bare. To destroy the only thing I had left-my dignity.

She turned to walk away, swaying her hips.

The lights in the ballroom flickered.

The air grew heavy, charged with static.

I looked at her retreating back, and I knew one thing for certain.

Tonight, one of us was going to die.