My Coldhearted Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage

The subway ride back to Brooklyn was a blur of agonizing pain.

Every time the train jolted, the raw skin on Erika's arm screamed. The cold wind outside the station felt like sandpaper against her burns.

She dragged her feet up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. Her hand shook violently as she dug her keys out of her tote bag.

She slid the key into the rusted lock. She noticed faint, fresh scratch marks around the metal cylinder, a sudden cold dread filling her stomach before the door even swung open. It clicked.

Erika pushed the door open, ready to collapse.

But the moment she stepped inside, her lungs froze.

The familiar scent of mold and cheap cleaning supplies was gone. Instead, the heavy, expensive aroma of cedarwood and dark tobacco filled the cramped space.

Erika's eyes darted to the center of the room.

Sitting on her sagging thrift-store sofa was a man in a bespoke charcoal suit. His long legs were stretched out, taking up the entire space.

Doyle Morgan.

Erika's heart stopped beating.

But what made her blood run entirely cold was what he held in his arms.

Connor was fast asleep, his small head resting against Doyle's broad chest.

Panic, raw and blinding, exploded in Erika's brain.

"Put him down!" she screamed, launching herself across the room.

She threw herself at the sofa, her hands clawing at his suit jacket, trying to rip her son away from him.

Doyle didn't flinch. He secured Connor against his chest with his left arm. His right hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around Erika's wrist like a steel vice.

With a sharp pull, he dragged her down, forcing her to crash onto the sofa cushion right beside him. He carefully angled his body so she wouldn't hit the child.

Connor stirred, letting out a soft whimper.

Doyle's chest stopped moving. He held his breath, his large hand instinctively coming up to cup the back of Connor's head, soothing him back to sleep.

The sight of Doyle-the monster who destroyed her life-comforting her son made Erika feel physically sick. She thrashed against his grip.

"Let me go!" she hissed.

Doyle's dark eyes snapped to hers. "Shut up," he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble. "You're going to wake him."

Erika froze, terrified of scaring Connor. She glared at Doyle, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with pure hatred.

Doyle's gaze slowly dropped from her face.

His eyes landed on her left arm.

The blisters were massive now, the skin peeling away in angry red patches.

Doyle's pupils dilated. The temperature in the room plummeted. The grip on her wrist tightened so hard Erika felt her bones grind together.

"Who did this?" Doyle demanded. His voice was deathly quiet, but the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.

Erika let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "Why don't you ask your girlfriend? It was a lovely tip for my delivery service."

Doyle's face turned to stone. A flash of violent, unrestrained fury crossed his eyes.

But just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. He sneered, his lip curling. "Who gave you permission to go to her penthouse? Trying to beg for your old life back?"

Erika's mouth fell open in shock. "HR assigned me the delivery! You think I wanted to see her?"

Doyle leaned in, his face inches from hers. His breath ghosted over her lips. "Nothing happens in my company without my approval, Erika. You went because I allowed it."

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.

He had orchestrated the entire thing. He wanted her humiliated. He wanted her broken.

A wave of pure, unfiltered rage washed over her.

Erika ripped her free hand back and slapped him across the face with everything she had.

The sharp crack echoed in the small room.

Doyle's head snapped to the side.

Before Erika could pull her hand back, Doyle dropped Connor onto the sofa cushions, grabbed both of Erika's wrists, and twisted them behind her back.

He pressed his hard chest against hers, trapping her completely.

He looked down at Connor, who was still sleeping soundly. A dark, ugly jealousy twisted Doyle's features.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear. "Is this what you reduced yourself to? Letting yourself get burned to feed another man's bastard?"

Erika saw red. She opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder, biting down until she tasted his blood.