You Gave Her Our Suite, Now Call Me Your Boss

ELENA'S POV

Cynthia stepped into my path before I reached the foyer. The two building guards she had called while I packed stood behind her.

"Hold it right there," Cynthia ordered, crossing her arms. She gestured toward my bag with a flick of her chin. "Open it. Search everything."

One guard took the handle and unzipped my case. Before I could pull it back, he tipped my belongings onto the hardwood floor.

"I haven't consented to a search," I said. I glanced at the security camera above the lift. "Make sure you keep that footage."

"Protecting my son's assets," Cynthia said with a sharp sneer. "Marcus earns tens of millions a year, and you've spent three years leeching off his wealth. I need to make sure you aren't walking out of here with the diamond earrings, watches, or luxury bags he generously bought for you."

I stood still, watching the guards sift through the sparse contents.

There was nothing of Marcus's in that pile. Just three old notebooks filled with my personal research, my passport, my birth certificate, and a few simple changes of clothes I had purchased before our wedding.

Over three years of marriage, Marcus had never bought me fine jewelry. His gifts were sponsor samples: a scarf, a miniature perfume bottle, airport chocolates selected by an assistant. I had left them all behind.

What Cynthia didn't know was the ledger in my head. Over three seasons, I had committed six million seven hundred thousand dollars from my separate trust distributions to supplemental rehabilitation, recovery equipment, clinical nutrition, and improvements to the rink Marcus used. An independent administrator paid the providers. The club had approved the supplemental arrangements; Marcus saw the administrator's name and accepted his agency's claim that it had arranged everything.

After his knee injury two seasons ago, I had sat beside him through weeks of uncertainty. I couldn't claim to have healed him. I could name every person I had paid to help.

"Nothing here, Mrs. Vance," the guard said. He put the notebooks, documents, and clothes back in my case, avoiding my eyes.

"Check her coat pockets," Cynthia demanded, narrowing her eyes.

Before the guard could step toward me, the sound of laughter echoed down the private elevator corridor.

Chloe came through the private elevator doors in an emerald gown and a fur wrap, her hand hooked through Marcus's arm. He was still in his postgame tracksuit. They had apparently stopped upstairs on their way to the club.

The moment Chloe saw the mess on the floor and my suitcase, she tucked her hair behind her ear and gave a soft, theatrical gasp.

"Oh, Elena," Chloe said, resting a manicured hand over her chest. "Marcus told me you were still upstairs. I am so terribly sorry. If I had known tonight was your anniversary, I would have checked into the Four Seasons instead of interrupting your evening."

She looked at Marcus with wide, innocent eyes, but when her gaze flicked back to me, the feigned sympathy vanished into a smug, victorious smirk.

"Don't apologize to her, Chloe," Marcus said, patting Chloe's hand where it rested on his forearm. "You did nothing wrong. The agency leases this penthouse. She needs to understand how professional priorities work."

Chloe stepped closer, her gaze dropping to the thin silver chain around my neck, the one my mother had left me.

Chloe tilted her chin so the hallway lights caught the diamond choker at her throat.

"Marcus gave me this right before the press conference," Chloe whispered, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness so only the two of us could hear. "A one-of-a-kind Cartier high jewelry piece. Custom made in Paris. A man's spending reflects where his heart actually belongs, wouldn't you say?"

She smiled coldly, leaning in until her perfume filled the space between us. "You should learn your place, Elena. Sticking around a superstar when you have nothing to offer just makes you a pathetic parasite."

I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I merely looked through her, as if she were made of glass.

Marcus stepped between us, towering over me with his arms folded across his broad chest. His expression was full of impatient condescension, like a king negotiating with an unruly peasant.

"Look, Elena," Marcus said, his voice flat and authoritative. "Stop making a scene in front of Chloe and my mother. Pack your little bag and go down to the basement storage room. Stay out of sight for four days until the brand campaign wraps up."

He paused, offering a generous, mocking grin.

"If you behave yourself and don't cause any drama while the media is here, I'll take you to the VIP fan signing next weekend. I'll even get you a backstage pass."

He waited for me to thank him. Apparently, after three years of marriage, I had finally earned the right to stand in line for my husband's autograph.

I looked at Marcus. Then I looked at Cynthia, who stood watching with a satisfied smirk, and Chloe, who leaned against Marcus's side as if she already owned the penthouse.

A faint, mocking smile touched my lips.

"A fan pass?" I said softly.

"It's more than you deserve after the attitude you've shown tonight," Marcus replied, checking his watch. "Take the deal and get out of our sight."

I opened the suitcase's document sleeve and took out the second copy of the agreement. The first was still on the dining table, beside the anniversary gift nobody had noticed.

I slapped the papers against Marcus's chest. He jerked back instead of taking them.

The pages slipped from my hand and scattered across the floor, the title landing faceup at his feet.

Marcus stumbled back half a step in surprise, his brows furrowing as he looked down at the mess.

PROPOSED SEPARATION AGREEMENT.

The summary beneath it was plain: no alimony requested; separate property retained; full financial disclosure required. The remaining terms would go through our lawyers and the court.

My signature was on the last page: Elena Reed. My mother's surname, the legal name on my passport. I had hidden my family connections from him, not falsified the marriage.

Marcus's face instantly darkened, the smug composure on his features shattering into disbelief and rage.

"What the hell is this?" Marcus barked, kicking one of the scattered pages aside before glaring at me. "Are you threatening me? You think pulling a stunt like this will make me beg you to stay?"

"It's not a stunt," I said. "My lawyer is filing for divorce. Your copy is on the table."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Cynthia snapped, stepping forward with an ugly scowl. "Who do you think you are? You entered this marriage with nothing, and you'll leave with nothing! Do you think Marcus cares if you sign a piece of paper?"

"Elena, stop acting insane," Marcus snarled, his voice rising in anger as he grabbed my forearm. "You're playing hard to get, and it's pathetic. If you walk out that door tonight, don't ever think about coming back! You won't get a single penny from my contract, no spousal support, and no house! You'll starve on the street!"

I pulled my arm free and stepped beyond his reach. The guard who had searched my case suddenly found the floor interesting.

"Keep your money, Marcus," I said, looking him dead in the eyes. "You're going to need every single cent of it."

I zipped the suitcase shut, took its handle, and walked past Cynthia and Chloe into the elevator. Neither guard tried to stop me this time.

"Elena! Get back here!" Marcus shouted from the hallway, his face red with fury. "If you step into that elevator, we are done!"

The metal doors smoothly slid shut, cutting off his voice, his rage, and the three years of suffocating silence.

The elevator descended rapidly toward the private underground garage.

My phone vibrated. Arthur's message had arrived before the doors closed: We're downstairs. I opened the secure calling app I still used to authorize payments from my personal accounts.

The elevator signal dropped. I waited until the doors opened onto the garage landing and the connection returned.

Then I called my father's private office line. I had declined every invitation to return to the family business for three years. That conversation was over.

The line connected on the very first ring.

My father's voice came through, low and suddenly alert. "Elena?"

"Father," I said, stopping beside the open elevator. "My three-year vacation is officially over."

For a moment, all I heard was the shift of papers on his desk. When he spoke again, the businesslike tone was gone.

"Are you safe?"

"Yes. Arthur is here."

"Then tell me what you need."

"Restore my authority over our North American sports investments," I said. "And put Marcus Vance's sponsorship proposal on my desk before morning. He's about to find out whose money he's been waiting for."