The Billionaire's Regret: Chasing His Ex-Wife

Aryana Mason POV

I didn't think; I reacted.

My hand moved before my brain could even process the blast radius of what I was about to do.

Crack.

The sound of my palm connecting with Kacie's cheek didn't just echo; it severed the atmosphere of the ballroom like a gunshot.

It was loud. It was violent. And God, it was satisfying.

Kacie stumbled back, clutching her face, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning fury.

The music cut out. The chatter died instantly.

Cameron materialized from the crowd as if summoned by the violence.

He stood between us, his broad back to Kacie, his eyes locked on mine.

There was a warning in his gaze. A silent, iron-clad command.

Submit.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird desperate for flight. I knew Kacie. She didn't do anger; she did retribution.

I felt a cold sweat prickle along the nape of my neck.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the host's voice boomed over the speakers, the forced cheer trying desperately to salvage the mood. "Please, turn your attention to the main screen for a special tribute to our Don, Cameron O'Neill."

The lights dimmed, plunging us into semi-darkness.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. A distraction. Good. Anything to break this suffocating tension.

I glanced at Sarah, who was standing by a marble pillar. She gave me a sharp, grounding nod. I am here.

The massive LED screen behind the stage flickered to life.

But there was no montage of Cameron's business conquests. No sepia-toned photos of his childhood.

It was a bedroom.

My bedroom.

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

The image on the screen was grainy, washed in night-vision green, but it was undeniable.

It was me.

I was crying in the video, curled into a tight fetal ball, wearing nothing but a silk sheet that was slowly slipping off my shoulder.

It was a moment of absolute, private despair I remembered from months ago-a night I thought no one had witnessed.

And then the camera zoomed in.

It wasn't just intimate. It was invasive. It was a violation.

The ballroom gasped as one collective entity.

I felt the shame wash over me like boiling water, scalding every inch of my skin.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.

I looked at Cameron.

I hated him.

I hated him with a force that felt like it could crack my ribs wide open.

He did this. He allowed this. He was punishing me for the slap, stripping me bare before his kingdom.

The video continued. It was looping. My vulnerability projected twenty feet high for the entire underworld to dissect.

"Turn it off!" someone shouted from the back.

But the screen didn't go black.

I saw Kacie in the shadows, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips.

I was being executed. Publicly. Viscerally.

Then, movement.

A massive shape blurred past me.

It wasn't Cameron.

It was Sarah's bodyguard. A giant of a man named Marcus.

He didn't look for the remote. He didn't waste time looking for the cables.

He vaulted onto the stage with terrifying agility for a man his size.

He drew a collapsible baton, the metal snapping into place, and swung it with lethal force.

Smash.

The LED panel shattered. Sparks showered down like fireworks.

He swung again. And again.

The screen finally went dark, leaving only the smell of ozone and ruined electronics.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

The O'Neill elders were on their feet, shouting orders to seal the doors.

"Just a prank!" a drunken guest yelled nervously, his laugh dying in his throat. "Lovers' quarrel!"

"Shut up!" I screamed. My voice was raw, unrecognizable even to myself.

Sarah was suddenly beside me. Her hand gripped mine so hard her nails dug into my skin, grounding me.

She turned to the room. She looked like a goddess of vengeance carved from ice.

"Aryana Mason is under my protection," Sarah announced, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "She is done with this family."

She scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on the tech booth with lethal precision.

"Whoever put that video up," she said, her tone dropping to a deadly whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the room, "you will pay a thousandfold. This is a promise."

I looked at Cameron.

His face was pale, drained of all color.

He looked at the broken screen, then at me.

He looked terrified.

And for the first time, he wasn't the scariest thing in the room.