Divorced By The Boss I Slept With

The interior of Brennan's bulletproof Maybach was dead silent.

Arnetta sat rigidly in the plush leather seat, staring out the tinted window at the blurring lights of Manhattan. The air in the car was thick with the scent of Brennan's cologne. He sat on the opposite side of the spacious backseat, typing rapidly on his phone, completely ignoring her.

The car glided to a halt in front of a restaurant in Tribeca. It was a Michelin three-star establishment that required a six-month waiting list.

A uniformed doorman opened the car door. Arnetta stepped out into the crisp evening air. Brennan followed, handing his tailored suit jacket to a waiting attendant.

The maître d' bowed deeply and led them through the dimly lit, elegant dining room to a private VIP booth tucked away in the back. Heavy velvet curtains shielded them from the rest of the restaurant.

Brennan slid into the curved leather booth. Arnetta sat opposite him.

A waiter silently poured a dark, expensive red wine into their glasses and vanished.

Brennan leaned back, resting his arm on the back of the booth. His dark eyes locked onto Arnetta. The corporate mask was gone, replaced by the predatory gaze she remembered from the hotel room.

"So," Brennan said, his voice a low rumble. "Tell me about yourself, Miss Oliver. What drives a woman to endure a two-hour physical punishment just to keep a job?"

Arnetta picked up her water glass, taking a slow sip to buy time. She needed to steer the conversation toward Vanguard's internal operations.

"I am ambitious, Mr. Kirkland," Arnetta said smoothly, reciting her fabricated cover story. "I grew up with nothing. Vanguard is the pinnacle of the financial world. I want to learn from the best."

"The best," Brennan repeated, a mocking smile touching his lips. "You mean me."

"I mean the firm," Arnetta corrected. "Specifically, the strategies employed by your top executives."

Brennan's eyes narrowed slightly. He saw right through the pivot. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Let's skip the corporate bullshit," Brennan said. "Where did you really come from? A cheap suit and fake glasses don't hide the fact that you know exactly how to handle yourself in a room full of sharks."

Arnetta's heart skipped a beat. He was too observant. Even as 'Aura', she had never faced a mark who could peel back layers of identity with a single look.

Before she could formulate a lie, a violent buzzing shattered the quiet intimacy of the booth.

Arnetta's personal phone, sitting face-up on the table, vibrated aggressively against the polished wood.

The screen lit up. The caller ID flashed: TRUSTEE - ESTATE 09.

Arnetta's blood ran cold. This was the encrypted line for her 'paper marriage'—a union managed entirely through shell companies and faceless lawyers.

She reached for the phone, her movements usually a blur of lethal efficiency. But the sheer timing of the call, combined with Brennan’s predatory scrutiny, created a lethal friction. Her fingers clipped the edge of the device, sending it sliding across the polished wood.

It hit the marble floor with a loud, ringing clatter.

Brennan flinched slightly at the noise. He looked down at the fork, then up at Arnetta's pale face. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

"Are you alright?" Brennan asked, his voice losing its mocking edge.

Arnetta dived for it, her investigator’s instincts screaming to kill the signal. But as she grabbed the device from the floor, her thumb—slick with a bead of cold sweat—swiped the wrong direction on the high-sensitivity screen, inadvertently accepting the call and activating the speakerphone.

The audio played instantly. The volume was low, but in the dead quiet of the VIP booth, it was unmistakable.

It was a man's voice, heavily distorted by a digital privacy filter, making it sound robotic and cold.

"Sign the papers, you greedy woman. Stop dragging this out. You are getting nothing."

Arnetta gasped. She scrambled up, her fingers desperately jabbing at the screen to kill the audio. She slammed the phone face-down on the table, her chest heaving.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Brennan leaned back slowly. He crossed his arms over his chest. The confusion on his face morphed into a look of dark amusement.

"Well," Brennan drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "It seems your marriage is just as miserable as you are."

Arnetta's face burned. The irony was a physical weight. She had spent months trying to trace the ultimate beneficiary of her marriage contract, only to be harassed by his legal dogs in front of her target.

She abandoned her careful, professional persona. She looked Brennan dead in the eye.

"My husband," Arnetta spat, her voice trembling with anger, "is a coward. A pathetic, spineless coward who hides behind encrypted filters and offshore trusts."

Brennan raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the show. He picked up his wine glass. "Is that so?"

"We have been married for three years," Arnetta continued, the words tumbling out in a furious rush. "I have never even seen his face. The marriage was a legal maneuver for his family estate, handled by proxies. He treats me like a financial liability instead of a human being. He is a deadbeat, arrogant bastard who thinks he can buy his way out of a commitment."

Brennan took a slow sip of his wine. He recognized the cold, clinical efficiency of the 'nothing' ultimatum—it was a strategy he respected. But he despised the lack of control.

"He sounds sloppy," Brennan said smoothly.

"He is worse than sloppy," Arnetta hissed, her fingernails digging into her palms. "He is a narcissistic sociopath. He thinks he can just send a text and erase me. I hope he rots."

Brennan actually let out a low, genuine chuckle. He set his wine glass down.

"I have to agree with you, Miss Oliver," Brennan said, his voice dripping with irony. "Any man who allows his legal threats to be broadcast in a public restaurant is an amateur. He lacks the discipline to finish what he started quietly."

Arnetta felt a strange, twisted sense of validation. For a brief second, she actually felt a sliver of camaraderie with the tyrant sitting across from her. They were bonding over their mutual hatred of her husband.

She had absolutely no idea that the "amateur" sitting right in front of her was the very man who had signed the 'nothing' order using his mother’s maiden name and a blind trust.

And Brennan had absolutely no idea that he had just critiqued his own legal team's lack of discretion.

Arnetta stared at her phone, the anger morphing into a cold, calculating desire for revenge. She was not going to let that bastard get away with this.

"Excuse me for a moment," Arnetta said, grabbing her phone and standing up. "I need to use the restroom."