Swapping Lives With My Cold Ex-Husband

Dara took a slow, jagged breath. She forced the tears burning behind her eyes to stay put.

She slammed the divorce papers down onto the table.

"Tell me the real reason you're in such a rush to do this," she demanded, her voice dropping an octave.

Donavon's eyes narrowed. "It's a restructuring of assets. Nothing more."

Dara let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "Restructuring? Is that what we're calling Baccarat Rouge 540 now?"

She pointed a shaking finger at his collar. "Adalynn Hart flew back from Paris today. That's why you want me out."

Donavon's jaw ticked. The muscles in his neck went rigid. "Leave innocent people out of this."

The way he defended the other woman felt like a physical knife twisting in Dara's gut.

She lost control. She shoved her chair back so hard it screeched against the hardwood floor.

"Innocent?" Dara's eyes were bloodshot. "What about Boston? What about the abandoned warehouse three years ago?"

She slammed her hands onto the table, leaning toward him. "Did you really forget the promise you made to me while we were dodging bullets?"

Donavon's expression instantly morphed into pure, unadulterated disgust.

He stood up, planting his hands on the table, towering over her with a terrifying physical presence.

"I don't have those memories," he snarled, his voice vibrating with rage.

"You used my PTSD from the car crash to spin a massive lie. You fabricated that entire savior complex just to secure a ring."

Dara stumbled back a step, her breath catching in her throat. She looked at him like he was a monster.

She took a step forward, her chest heaving as tears of pure betrayal finally spilled over her lashes. "I bled for you!" she screamed, her voice tearing at the seams. "I put my life on the line and faced danger for you when no one else would!"

Donavon turned his head away sharply. "I have zero interest in looking at the ugly scars you picked up in whatever slum you crawled out of."

The words hit her like a physical blow to the head.

Everything inside Dara shattered. The desperate, clinging hope she had held onto for three years evaporated into thin air.

She went entirely still. The frantic energy drained from her body, leaving her eyes dead and hollow.

She reached for the Montblanc pen resting near the documents and pulled the cap off.

Donavon watched her, expecting her to sign.

Instead, Dara pressed the metal tip of the pen directly against the center of the multi-million dollar trust fund check.

She looked up at him. Her face was completely devoid of emotion.

She pointed her left hand at the bowl of seafood soup sitting in front of him. A thick, unappetizing layer of grease had congealed on the surface.

"I have one final condition," Dara said, her voice eerily calm. "Eat the rest of that soup. Every last cold, disgusting bite."

"Excuse me?" Donavon stared at her.

"Eat it," Dara repeated. "And I will sign this paper right now, and you will never see my face again."

Donavon let out a harsh breath. "You are out of your mind."

"If you don't," Dara said, her grip on the pen tightening, "I will drag this divorce out in court for years. I will make sure your precious Adalynn remains nothing but a dirty little secret."

Donavon ground his teeth together. The muscles in his jaw bulged, and a flash of pure, violent intent crossed his eyes.

He stared at her for ten agonizing seconds.

Then, to get rid of her as fast as possible, he pulled his chair back, sat down, and picked up the silver spoon.