Escaping My Possessive Billionaire Ex-Husband

The conversation was a blur.

Ian Foster was perfectly pleasant. He talked about his work at Mount Sinai, a funny story about a patient who thought a seizure was a divine message. He was charming, and under any other circumstances, Althea might have been charmed.

But all she could hear was the frantic, irregular thumping of her own heart.

Her mind was in the room next door. With him.

She pictured his cool gray eyes, the slight, cruel curve of his mouth. The way he had looked at her as if she were a piece of dirt on his shoe.

"...and that's when we realized the tumor was pressing right on his temporal lobe," Ian was saying.

Althea nodded, trying to look engaged. "Fascinating."

The word came out flat. Lifeless.

She needed to escape. She needed air.

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" she asked, placing her napkin on the table. "I just need to... use the restroom."

Ian's expression was all understanding. "Of course. Take your time."

Althea fled the room.

The corridor was empty. The door to the Trianon Suite was now firmly shut. A fortress. She couldn't hear a thing from inside.

A small measure of relief washed over her. She hurried down the hall to the restroom area.

The restroom area was a cavern of marble and gold fixtures, and thankfully, empty. She went to the sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on her face.

The icy shock helped. A little.

She lifted her head, water dripping from her chin, and looked at her reflection. A pale, haunted-looking woman stared back. Her eyes were too wide, her lipstick slightly smudged.

Then, in the mirror, a movement behind her.

The door to the men's lounge swung open, and a tall figure stepped out.

Althea's entire body went rigid.

It was Damarcus.

He was drying his hands with a linen handkerchief, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn't seem surprised to see her.

He didn't leave. Instead, he leaned a shoulder against the marble wall, folding his arms. His gray eyes met hers in the mirror, and the vast, empty space between them suddenly felt small and suffocating.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Althea could hear the blood roaring in her ears.

He was the one to break it. His voice was low, devoid of any emotion. "The Hayes family debt. Is it settled?"

The question was a shard of ice, sliding straight into her gut. It was the one topic, the one raw wound, she couldn't bear to have touched. Especially not by him.

She wrenched her gaze away from the mirror and turned to face him directly, her jaw tight. It was a pathetic attempt at a standoff, but it was all she had.

"That's none of your business, Damarcus." Her voice trembled, and she hated herself for it.

A small, humorless smile touched his lips. It was more of a sneer. A scoff. "I suppose your doctor date is footing the bill tonight?"

The insult was so direct, so demeaning, it stole her breath. He was implying she was for sale.

Heat flared in her cheeks. "What I do is my concern," she snapped, anger finally burning through the fear. "We are divorced."

She spat the word "divorced" at him. It was a shield. A flimsy, paper-thin shield against a man made of steel.

Damarcus's eyes narrowed. He pushed off the wall and took a single step toward her. The space between them shrank. The air grew thin.

"A piece of paper doesn't erase history, Althea."

She took an involuntary step back, her hips bumping against the cold, hard edge of the marble vanity. Trapped.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't stand here and let him dismantle her, piece by piece.

She sidestepped, intending to brush past him and escape back to her own room, her own life.

He didn't move to stop her. He simply watched her go, his gaze a physical weight on her back.

She practically ran back to the Versailles Suite, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. She slid back into her chair, trying to compose her features, trying to breathe.

Ian was looking at her, his brow furrowed with concern. But before he could speak, his phone buzzed violently on the table.

He glanced at it, and his entire demeanor changed. His face became a mask of professional gravity.

"I'm so sorry, Althea," he said, already standing up. "There's an emergency at the hospital. A multi-car pile-up on the FDR."

He had to go. Immediately.

Althea felt a dizzying, inappropriate wave of pure relief.

"Of course," she said, her voice genuine for the first time all night. "Please, go. Don't worry about it."

He gave her an apologetic look, quickly paid the bill with the waiter, and scribbled his number on a napkin. "I'll call you. We'll do this again."

Then he was gone.

The suite was silent again. Althea was alone, staring at a table of expensive, untouched food. The whole evening felt like a bizarre, cruel joke. And she was the punchline.