The Billionaire's Regret: My Hidden Wife

By 6:00 PM, Aislinn felt like she was going to explode. Her inbox was flooded with demands from Gavin. Declan was hyperventilating in his office. And every time she closed her eyes, she saw Eric's face-not the cold CEO face, but the face of the man who had held her in the dark. She needed to hit something. Or drive. She grabbed the keys to Harper's car from her desk. Harper had left the 1967 Ford Mustang at the studio specifically because she knew Aislinn sometimes needed a "therapy session." The car was a beast-matte black, souped-up engine, illegal tint. It was the antithesis of Aislinn Reese. She changed in the bathroom. Off went the grey cardigan. On went a leather jacket, a baseball cap pulled low, and aviator sunglasses. She roared out of the parking garage, the engine growling like a caged animal. Traffic on the FDR Drive was heavy, but moving. Aislinn wove through the cars, the vibration of the steering wheel soothing the anxiety in her fingertips. Up ahead, she saw a convoy of three black SUVs taking up two lanes, moving at a steady, arrogant pace. They were blocking traffic, forcing everyone to slow down. Koch Security. She recognized the formation. Flashbacks of her marriage-of being told where to sit, when to speak, how to breathe-flooded her mind. The arrogance of those black cars represented everything she hated about Eric's world. "Move," she muttered, gripping the wheel. She downshifted. The Mustang screamed. She saw a gap between the lead SUV and the concrete median. It was tight. Dangerous. Perfect. She floored it. The Mustang shot forward like a bullet. Inside the rear SUV, Eric was reviewing a digital file of Rose's designs on his tablet. He was mesmerized by the sketches. They were bold, chaotic, yet structurally perfect. Suddenly, a roar drowned out the quiet hum of the AC. "What was that?" Eric asked, looking up. "Crazy driver, sir," the security lead said from the front seat. "Coming up on the left." Eric turned his head just in time to see a black blur shoot past his window. The car was inches from the metal guardrail. It was a maneuver that required surgical precision and a total lack of fear. As the Mustang pulled ahead, the driver's hand shot out the window. A single finger extended in a crisp, defiant salute. Eric blinked. Then, a slow grin spread across his face. "Did I just get flipped off?" he asked, sounding delighted. "I'll call it in, sir. Get the plate." "No," Eric said, watching the taillights weave through traffic. "Let them go. That was... impressive." He hadn't felt a spark of genuine amusement in months. Ten minutes later, traffic stalled at a red light near the exit for the Brooklyn Bridge. The convoy pulled up next to the black Mustang. Eric lowered his window. He wanted to see who was driving. A reckless teenager? A drunk? The driver of the Mustang was leaning one arm on the door frame, tapping fingers against the roof to the beat of a song Eric couldn't hear. The driver turned. Through the tint and the sunglasses, Eric couldn't see eyes. But he saw the jawline. The curve of the neck. The way a stray lock of dark hair fell from under the cap. For a second, the world stopped. He knew that neck. He knew the angle of that chin. It triggered a sensory memory from the night before-the taste of skin, the pulse under his lips. The driver seemed to freeze, staring back at him. Aislinn. Her heart hammered against her ribs. He was right there. Five feet away. If she took off the glasses, it was over. If she spoke, it was over. She slowly raised her hand to the brim of her cap and pulled it down, obscuring her face completely. The light turned green. Aislinn didn't hesitate. She slammed on the gas, peeling out with a screech of tires that left the smell of burnt rubber in the air. "Sir?" Gavin asked. "Did you know him?" "Her," Eric corrected, staring at the empty road. "It was a woman." He pulled out his phone. "Get me the registration on a black '67 Mustang. New York plate: QX-998." "Right away." Five minutes later, the text came through. Owner: Harper Yates. Eric frowned. Harper. His ex-wife's loud, obnoxious best friend. The socialite who spent more time in nightclubs than at home. "Of course," he muttered, disappointed. "Birds of a feather." He assumed Harper was driving, or perhaps she had lent the car to one of her many boyfriends. He thought briefly of Aislinn, the grey mouse from the office, but the thought was laughable. That timid creature couldn't handle a stick shift, let alone drive with that kind of aggression. The idea that Aislinn Reese could be behind the wheel of a muscle car was as absurd as a nun robbing a bank. But the image of that chin, that neck... it stayed with him. It was bothering him. It was a puzzle piece that didn't fit. Back at her apartment, Aislinn parked the car and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Her hands were shaking. Too close. She needed that necklace back. As long as Janine had it, she was tethered to that night. And as long as she was working for Eric, she was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. She pulled out her laptop and opened a backdoor program she had installed on Eric's home network years ago-back when she was trying to find out what his favorite meal was so she could cook it. She scanned his calendar. Tomorrow: 7:00 PM. Charity Auction. Koch HQ Atrium. Janine would be there. She would be wearing the necklace to show it off. Aislinn smiled, a sharp, dangerous curve of her lips. "Time to go to work."