Dumped at My Anniversary, I Married His Worst Enemy

The mobile card reader emitted a sharp, high-pitched beep. A bright green light flashed across the small screen, illuminating the young caterer's confused expression.

"Approved, ma'am," the young man said. He tore the long white receipt from the machine and held it out.

I snatched it from his fingers. "Thank you."

Gerald stepped forward, his jaw tight. "Evelyn, are you insane? Cancel that transaction right now."

"Why?" I asked, folding the thin paper into a neat square. "It's my supplementary card. You haven't frozen it yet."

"It's tied to my primary account," he snapped, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper to avoid drawing the guests' attention. "You just signed the settlement. You have absolutely no right to that money."

"The settlement goes into effect when a judge signs it," I replied, slipping the receipt into my purse. "Until then, I am still your wife. And I am taking a vacation."

Rose scoffed, crossing her arms over her silk dress. "A first-class ticket to Vegas? That's pathetic, Eve. Running away to gamble your sorrows?"

"I'm not running, Rose," I said. "I'm celebrating."

Marcus finally lowered his phone. He glared at me. "Dad, just call the bank. Report the card stolen."

"By the time the fraud department picks up, I'll be at the gate," I told my son.

"You're making a fool of yourself," Gerald said. He reached for my purse, but I stepped back, out of his grasp.

"Am I?" I asked. "You handed me divorce papers at a party funded by my stolen retirement money. I think booking a flight is the least offensive thing happening in this room."

"It's not your money," Marcus shot back. "Dad earned it."

I looked at my son, studying the arrogant tilt of his chin. "Did he? Ask him who secured the seed funding. Ask him who paid your private school tuition when the first three quarters posted massive losses."

Gerald stepped between me and Marcus. "Enough. You're upset. Put the card on the table, Evelyn. Walk away."

"No." I zipped my purse shut. "Cancel it tomorrow, Gerald. Tonight, it's mine."

I turned my back on them and walked toward the double doors. The chatter of the party resumed as I stepped into the hallway. No one followed me.

Three hours later, the flight attendant paused at my seat in the first-class cabin.

"Would you care for some champagne before takeoff, Mrs. Shaw?" she asked.

"Whiskey. Neat," I said.

"Right away."

I reached into my leather tote and pulled out a battered, leather-bound address book. The edges were frayed, the spine cracked from years of neglect. I flipped past the A's and B's, the stiff pages rustling in the quiet cabin. I stopped at the letter Q.

Arthur Quinn.

Twenty years ago, when Shaw Capital was bleeding cash, Gerald spent weeks begging banks for a lifeline. They all shut him out. I drove to Quinn's estate myself. I sat in his study for four hours. He didn't care about Gerald's business model. He transferred the funds because I gave him my word.

I pulled out my new phone and tapped the keypad. I entered the ten digits, my thumb hovering over the green call button.

Not yet.

I hit 'Add Contact' instead. I typed the initials A.Q. and locked the screen, dropping the phone back into my bag.

The Bellagio bar smelled of expensive bourbon and melting ice. I sat at the far end of the polished mahogany counter, tracing the rim of my lowball glass.

"Another double," I told the bartender.

"Make it two," a voice said to my right.

I glanced over. The man sat one stool away. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, the tie loosened around his collar. His dark hair was messy, as if he had been running his hands through it for hours.

The bartender set two fresh glasses down on the napkins.

The man picked his up. He didn't look at me, keeping his eyes fixed on the amber liquid. "You're drinking like someone who just lost a war."

"I didn't lose," I said. "I surrendered."

He let out a short, dry laugh. "Is there a difference?"

"Surrendering means I get to walk away alive."

He turned his head. His eyes were sharp, scanning my face, taking in the lack of makeup, the tense set of my shoulders.

"Fair point," he murmured.

"Rough night?" I asked.

"Rough year," he answered. "Business partner. Turns out, loyalty has a price tag. Mine was fifty million."

"Mine was a penthouse on 5th Avenue," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Cheap."

"I thought so too."

He raised his glass in the air between us. The ice clinked softly against the crystal.

"To betrayal," he said.

I stared at his glass. I didn't ask who betrayed him. I didn't care. I picked up my own drink and tapped it against his.

"To dignity," I replied.

We drank in silence. The whiskey burned down my throat, washing away the lingering scent of Rose's expensive lilies.

A jazz singer stepped onto the small stage behind us, adjusting the microphone stand. A heavy bass line thumped through the speakers, vibrating against the wooden floorboards.

I leaned forward to take another sip, but a stray lock of hair slipped past my ear, hovering dangerously close to the rim of my glass.

Before I could brush it away, the man reached out.

His fingers brushed my cheek, cool and firm. He tucked the hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering on my jawline for a fraction of a second.

I froze, staring at his hand.

He leaned in close, his mouth inches from my ear. His lips moved, but the singer belted out a high note, drowning out his voice.

Only one word cut through the noise.

"...chapel."