Swapping Lives With My Cold Ex-Husband

Dara placed a reheated bowl of the seafood soup at the head of the long oak dining table.

The double doors of the dining room pushed open. Donavon Monroe walked in, bringing a draft of cold night air with him.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair, his jaw tight with irritation.

Dara stepped forward, reaching out to take his briefcase.

As she got close, a heavy, sweet scent hit her nose. It was a faint trace of expensive perfume. It wasn't hers.

Her right hand trembled slightly as she reached for the leather handle. The movement caused her sleeve to slip back an inch, exposing the edge of the blood-spotted gauze.

Donavon's eyes flicked to the bandage for a fraction of a second.

Then, he looked away. His expression remained completely blank. He didn't ask.

Dara's stomach plummeted. The air in her lungs felt like it had been sucked out of the room. The words she had practiced-the explanation about Keven and the burn-died in her throat.

Donavon pulled out his chair and sat down. He loosened his tie with a sharp tug.

"Get me a glass of ice water," he ordered, not looking at her.

Dara turned to the sideboard. She used her uninjured left hand to grip the heavy crystal pitcher, her muscles straining. She set the glass down in front of him with a dull thud.

Donavon picked up his silver spoon. He took one bite of the soup she had spent three hours making. His face showed zero emotion.

Dara stood across from him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She waited for him to say it. Just a simple 'Happy Birthday'.

Donavon dropped the spoon. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.

He unlatched his briefcase and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He tossed it onto the center of the table.

The envelope slid across the polished wood, stopping right in front of Dara's empty plate.

Dara stared at it, her pulse throbbing in her ears. "What is this?" Dara asked, her voice carrying a faint, barely perceptible tremor as a dark premonition washed over her. The silence in the room suddenly felt heavy and suffocating.

Donavon let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sneer. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Open it and find out," he said, his voice dropping into the flat, dead tone he used for hostile board meetings.

Dara reached out with a shaking left hand. She tore the flap and pulled out the thick stack of papers.

The bold black letters at the top of the first page burned into her retinas.

Divorce Settlement Agreement.

Dara's pupils dilated. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy.

She looked up, staring in absolute shock at the man she had loved for three years.

Donavon leaned back in his chair, his eyes hard and unyielding. "The trust fund outlined in section four is more than enough for you to waste for the rest of your life."

"Why today?" Dara's voice cracked. Her chest physically ached. "Why on our three-year anniversary? On my birthday?"

Donavon frowned, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his features. "I don't keep track of dates."

He leaned forward, his voice turning vicious. "Don't try to use cheap emotional manipulation to leverage a better payout, Dara. It won't work."

A suffocating wave of pain crashed over her. The burn on her right hand suddenly felt like it was scorching straight through her veins and into her heart.

She searched his cold, chiseled face, desperately looking for a shred of the warmth he had shown her three years ago.

There was nothing. Just the calculated, defensive glare of a ruthless capitalist.

Donavon tapped his knuckles against the table. "Sign it. My lawyers are waiting for the fax."

Dara gripped the edges of the agreement. Her knuckles turned stark white, the sharp edges of the paper crumpling under her tightening fists.