My Ex-Husband's Regret: The Billionaire's Return

The subway car smelled like sweat and perfume and something sweet rotting in a corner.

Anderson gripped the overhead bar, knuckles white, feeling every vibration through his palm. The train screamed into the station, brakes shrieking, and his headache flared in sympathetic response. He swallowed bile.

Too many bodies pressed against him. A woman's elbow dug into his ribs. A man's briefcase knocked against his knee. The air was thick, unbreathable, recycled through lungs and vents and the grimy pores of the city itself.

He closed his eyes.

DO NOT INVESTIGATE MY DEATH.

The words floated behind his eyelids, Elianna's handwriting deteriorating into desperation. What had she been afraid of? Who had she been running from? The questions circled like vultures, picking at the edges of his composure.

The doors opened. Anderson stumbled onto the platform, gasping, and made for the stairs.

The studio occupied the fourteenth floor of a building that tried too hard to look expensive. Anderson pushed through the revolving doors, nodded to the receptionist, and kept moving. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, he would think.

"Mr. Calhoun?" The receptionist's voice followed him. "You look-are you feeling alright?"

"Fine." He didn't break stride. "Late night."

The open floor plan hit him like a physical assault. Too many screens, too many voices, too many eyes tracking his progress toward his desk. He kept his gaze forward, focused on the small rectangle of space that belonged to him.

Luca Velez was sitting on it.

Anderson stopped. Three feet separated him from his own chair, his own computer, his own carefully organized client files. Luca had them spread across his lap, flipping through pages with deliberate slowness.

"Get off my desk."

Luca looked up. His smile was all teeth, the expression of a man who had been waiting for this moment. "Anderson. Rough night? You look like death warmed over. No-worse. Like death that got left out in the sun."

Anderson closed the distance. His hand shot out, snatched the files from Luca's grip. Paper rustled. A photograph fluttered to the floor.

"Touch my clients again," Anderson said, "and I'll have you in front of HR so fast you'll leave skid marks."

Luca raised both hands in mock surrender. He didn't stand. "Easy, tiger. I'm just the messenger. Raven's looking for you. Something about the Spence account." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a stage whisper. "She's not happy, Anderson. Not happy at all."

Anderson's jaw ached from clenching. "I'll handle it."

"Will you?" Luca stood, smoothing his jacket. He was shorter than Anderson, but he used his proximity like a weapon, invading personal space, forcing retreat. "Because from where I'm standing, you don't look like you're handling much of anything. When's the last time you slept? When's the last time you closed a deal?"

Anderson held his ground. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

Luca's smile flickered. Something colder moved behind his eyes. He stepped aside, but his shoulder caught Anderson's as he passed, a calculated collision that sent Anderson rocking back on his heels.

"Raven wants the Spence mess handled by three," Luca called over his shoulder. "Don't screw it up."

Anderson watched him go. His hands were shaking again. He sat down, hard, and pulled open his desk drawer.

Kasper Hayes's business card sat in the tray where he'd left it. Heavy stock, embossed lettering, the weight of old money and older secrets. He pulled out his phone. A missed call and a voicemail from an unknown number sat in his notifications. The message was brief, professional. Kasper Hayes's office, regarding the estate of Elianna Barber. He picked up the desk phone and dialed the number back before he could second-guess himself.

"Hayes and Associates." A woman's voice, professional and bored.

"This is Anderson Calhoun. I need to speak with Kasper Hayes regarding the Elianna Barber estate."

A pause. Keyboard sounds. "Mr. Hayes has a cancellation at three PM. Can you make that?"

"Yes."

"Please arrive fifteen minutes early for paperwork. Goodbye."

The line went dead.

Anderson set the receiver down. His computer screen glowed with forty-seven unread emails, each one demanding attention, each one representing a problem someone expected him to solve. He clicked the first. The words blurred together, meaningless.

The glass door to Raven Stein's office slammed open.

"Calhoun!" Her voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade. "My office. Now."

Every head turned. Anderson felt the weight of their gazes, curious and predatory. Luca stood near the water cooler, watching, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Anderson stood. Straightened his jacket. Walked.

Raven's office smelled like expensive coffee and stress. She stood behind her desk, arms crossed, a tabloid newspaper spread open before her. She didn't wait for him to sit.

"Explain this."

Anderson looked down. The photograph was grainy, clearly taken from distance, but unmistakable. Hailee Spence's husband, emerging from a hotel at 3 AM, a woman who was not his wife clinging to his arm.

"When did this hit?" Anderson asked.

"Six AM. The Post. Hailee's people have been calling every twenty minutes. She's threatening to terminate our contract, Anderson. She's threatening to tell everyone we knew about this and covered it up."

"Did we?"

Raven's eyes narrowed. "That's not the point. The point is containment. The point is making sure this doesn't become a story about our incompetence." She rubbed her temples, manicured nails digging into skin. "She's coming in. One hour. You will fix this, or you will find another job. Clear?"

"Clear."

Anderson turned. His mind was already shifting, compartmentalizing, building the framework of a response. Hailee Spence was a businesswoman first, a wife second. She cared about optics, about leverage, about the prenup she'd signed and the empire she'd helped build.

He could work with that.

The VIP reception room door opened as he approached. Hailee Spence stepped through, sunglasses covering half her face, an Hermès bag clutched in white-knuckled fingers.

Anderson straightened his spine and went to meet her.