The CEO's Trap: Reclaiming His Runaway Wife

Alena Griffith pushed open the stall door, her head throbbing.

The heavy brocade of her skirt felt tangled around her legs. She tugged at the fabric, trying to smooth it out, trying to smooth out the nausea churning in her stomach. The client dinner had been a blur of forced smiles and too much wine.

She stumbled toward the row of marble sinks, the cool air of the men's restroom a shock against her flushed skin. Yes, the men's. She'd realized her mistake too late.

She turned the faucet, plunging her hands under the icy stream. The cold shot up her wrists, a welcome sting that cleared a fraction of the fog in her brain.

Alena lifted her head, her gaze drifting to the vast mirror in front of her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Standing behind her, a tall, imposing figure in a perfectly tailored black suit was methodically washing his hands.

The man's eyes met hers in the reflection.

Alena's heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach. It was him. Graves Hammond. The man she would recognize even if he were reduced to ash. Her ex-husband.

She spun around, a desperate need to flee seizing her. But her legs, weakened by shock, felt like jelly.

Graves was faster. He shut off the water, dried his hands with a brisk, efficient motion, and took a single long stride that blocked her only path to the door.

A familiar scent, clean and sharp like cedarwood, enveloped her. Alena took an involuntary step back, her spine hitting the cold edge of the marble sink. There was nowhere left to go.

"Alena."

His voice was deeper than she remembered, rougher, with a tremor she couldn't quite place. "It's really you."

She forced herself to look up, to meet his gaze directly. She manufactured a smile-flawless, bright, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Mr. Hammond. It's been a while. If you'll excuse me, you're in my way."

The formal, distant address was a physical blow. His gaze darkened. "Do we have to be like this?"

The sarcasm in her voice was thick enough to taste. "What would you prefer? Should I call you darling? We divorced five years ago. I assume a man of your importance, with so much to remember, hasn't forgotten that."

His Adam's apple bobbed. The Patek Philippe on his wrist, a watch worth more than most people's homes, glinted under the harsh bathroom lights. It was a cold, hard reminder of the world he inhabited, a world that had spat her out.

"I haven't forgotten," he said, his voice thick with a regret that was five years too late. "Alena, what happened back then... I was wrong."

The apology didn't soothe her. It was gasoline on a fire of resentment that had smoldered for years.

A cold laugh escaped her lips. She glanced down at her left hand, at the faint, pale ring of skin on her ring finger, a ghost of a promise he had broken. "An apology? If apologies fixed everything, we wouldn't need police, would we? Mr. Hammond, I have no interest in discussing the past."

"I wanted to see you. I've been looking for you for five years," he said, stepping closer, his hand reaching for hers.

Alena snatched her hand back as if she'd been stung. Her eyes turned to ice.

"Don't," she said, her voice sharp and final. "I have a new life now."

He didn't believe her. The obsession in his eyes was a terrifying, familiar thing. "What new life? Come back to me, Alena. I won't let you go again."

The arrogance, the assumption that she was his for the taking, made her stomach churn again. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.

"Let me go?" She put the flawless smile back on her face. "Mr. Hammond, you seem to be under a misapprehension."

She let the silence hang for a beat.

"I'm married."

The words hit him like a physical force. Every muscle in his face froze. The storm in his eyes was replaced by sheer, unadulterated shock.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Alena savored his stunned expression, a small, bitter taste of victory on her tongue.

"I said, I'm married. I'm not interested in destroying someone else's family, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't disturb mine."

Her logic was clean, every word a perfectly aimed dart.

She took advantage of his momentary paralysis, ducking under his arm and bolting for the door.

She pulled the heavy door open without a single glance back, the sharp click-clack of her heels on the tile a declaration of her escape.

Graves stood frozen, the only sounds in the cavernous restroom the slow drip of a faucet and the blood roaring in his ears. His eyes, fixed on the door she had disappeared through, slowly turned a burning, furious red.