The Billionaire's Cold And Bitter Betrayal

The rain mixed with the tears on her face, hot and salty against the cold water. She let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded more like a sob. She had almost died today. She had faced the ground rushing up to meet her. And yet, that impact hadn't hurt half as much as this.

The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, humming with a frequency that seemed to vibrate directly against Anjanette's skull. She blinked, her eyelids feeling like sandpaper, and tried to lift her right arm. A sharp, searing pain shot from her shoulder down to her wrist, forcing a gasp from her dry throat. She gritted her teeth against a wave of dizziness, a lingering ghost of the concussion the doctor had warned her about. She looked down. Her arm was wrapped in thick gauze, a stark white against the bruising that was already blooming violet and green along her skin.

She was alive.

The memory of the turbulence, the screaming alarms of the private jet, and the terrifying silence that followed the crash rushed back in a fragmented, chaotic wave. She remembered the cold air rushing in through a breach in the fuselage. She remembered waiting for the end.

A nurse bustled into the room, checking the IV bag hanging by the bed. She didn't look at Anjanette's face, just at the equipment.

Excuse me, Anjanette croaked. Her voice was a ruin. Has anyone been here? My husband?

The nurse paused, her eyes flickering toward the door and then back to the chart in her hands. She seemed uncomfortable, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Just the flower delivery, Mrs. Horton. From a Gertrude Horton. No visitors.

Gertrude. Adam's grandmother. The only one who had ever looked at Anjanette with anything other than disdain. But Adam?

Anjanette reached for the phone on the bedside table with her good hand. The screen was cracked, a spiderweb of fractures distorting the glass, but it flickered to life. She tapped the call log. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

There were three missed calls. All from the insurance company regarding the aircraft.

Zero from Adam.

She opened the news app. The headline screamed in bold black letters: Horton Private Jet Emergency Landing – Pilot and Passenger Survive. Below it was a photo. It wasn't of the crash site. It was a file photo of Adam, looking dashing and severe in a charcoal suit, cutting a ribbon at a new tech hub in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The timestamp on the article was two hours ago.

Adam was smiling in the photo. He was cutting a ribbon while she was bleeding in a ditch.

A coldness that had nothing to do with the hospital air conditioning settled deep in her marrow. It started in her chest and spread outward, numbing her fingertips. She wasn't just unimportant; she was nonexistent.

She reached up and ripped the IV tape from her hand.

Ma'am! You can't do that! the nurse yelped, dropping the chart.

Anjanette didn't look at her. She slid her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was freezing against her bare feet.

I am signing out against medical advice, Anjanette said. Her voice was stronger now, fueled by a sudden, icy rage. I have a Grade 2 abrasion and likely a mild concussion. I will monitor for vomiting and pupil dilation myself. Give me the paperwork.

The nurse looked stunned by the sudden shift in demeanor, by the medical terminology flowing from the woman they had assumed was just a traumatized trophy wife.

Ten minutes later, Anjanette walked out of the sliding glass doors of the emergency room. She was wearing her hospital gown tucked into a pair of oversized scrubs the nurse had pitied her with, and a thin, disposable windbreaker.

It was raining. Of course it was raining. A cold, New York drizzle that soaked through the thin fabric instantly, plastering her hair to her forehead.

She stood on the curb, shivering. She didn't want to go back to the penthouse. The idea of that glass-walled mausoleum made her stomach turn.

A sleek black vehicle turned the corner, its headlights cutting through the gloom. Anjanette's breath hitched. She knew that car. It was a Bentley Mulsanne, the extended wheelbase edition. Adam's car.

For a split second, a pathetic hope flared in her chest. He had come. He had heard.

She stepped back behind a concrete pillar, sudden shame washing over her. She looked like a wreck. She didn't want him to see her like this.

The car didn't stop at the general pickup. It glided past her, smooth and silent, and pulled up to the VIP entrance fifty feet away.

The driver, a man she knew well, got out and popped a large black umbrella. He opened the rear door.

Adam stepped out.

Anjanette pressed herself against the cold concrete of the pillar. He looked impeccable. No tie, top button undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked worried. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set tight.

He turned back to the car interior and reached in.

He didn't pull out a briefcase. He didn't step aside. He leaned in and scooped someone up into his arms.

It was a woman. Petite, blonde, fragile.

Casie Haynes.

Casie had her face buried in the crook of Adam's neck, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. She looked small and precious, like fine china that needed to be handled with extreme care.

Anjanette watched, paralyzed. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she saw Adam's lips brush against Casie's forehead. It was a gesture of such tenderness, such protective instinct, that it felt like a physical blow to Anjanette's gut.

Adam turned and carried Casie toward the VIP elevators. He didn't look left. He didn't look right. He certainly didn't look toward the general exit where his wife, who had just fallen out of the sky, was standing in the rain.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked down numbly. It was an automated text from the airline: We apologize for the inconvenience regarding your luggage...

She looked back up, but the automatic doors had already slid shut behind them. They were gone.

Anjanette looked at her left hand. The simple platinum band on her finger felt heavy, like a shackle. She gripped it with her right hand, twisting it over the knuckle. It felt cold, alien. She didn't throw it. Instead, a cold resolve settled over her. This deserved more than a desperate, rain-soaked gesture. It deserved a final, deliberate burial.

A yellow taxi splashed through a puddle and slowed down near her. Anjanette raised her hand.

Where to? the driver asked, eyeing her strange outfit.

Horton Manor, she whispered. Then she cleared her throat and said it again, louder. Horton Manor.

She climbed into the back seat and closed her eyes, but the image of Adam carrying Casie was burned onto the back of her eyelids.