The Pitiful Ex-wife Is Now A Brilliant Tycoon

Brice stepped over a pile of Dior dresses, his boots muddying the delicate fabric. He reached for her, his hand aiming for her waist. It was possessive, a reflex.

"Carly, answer me. Why is half the closet on the floor?"

She stepped back. A sharp, distinct movement. She dodged his touch as if his skin were coated in acid.

Brice's hand grabbed empty air. His brow furrowed. "What is wrong with you?"

Carly pulled out her iPad. She forced her fingers to stop trembling. She typed.

Spring cleaning. These are old.

Brice looked down. He kicked a Chanel gown with the tag still on it. "This is from the fall collection. It's brand new."

Carly typed again. There is a charity gala next week. Autism awareness. I am donating them for the auction.

Brice read the screen. The tension in his shoulders dropped. "Charity. Right."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You and your causes. Fine. Whatever makes you feel useful. It's a good tax write-off, anyway. Make sure you get the receipts."

He loosened his tie, his eyes raking over her body. The anger was gone, replaced by a sudden, drunken lust. It wasn't desire, it was a need to reassert his ownership after her small act of defiance. He took a step closer. "Since you're feeling so generous..."

He reached for her again.

Carly felt a wave of nausea so strong she thought she might vomit on his shoes. The PTSD roared in her ears-the sound of mortar fire, the feeling of being trapped under rubble. His touch was no longer a comfort; it was a cage.

She clutched her stomach and grimaced. She doubled over slightly.

She pointed to her lower abdomen and mimed a cramp. She typed one word.

Period.

Brice stopped. His face twisted in disgust. "Great. Just great."

He turned on his heel. "I'm sleeping in the guest room. Don't wake me up."

He slammed the bathroom door.

Carly waited until she heard the shower running. A cold dread washed over her as she mentally calculated the days. She was late. Very late. She pushed the thought away, attributing it to the immense stress. It couldn't be anything else. It was impossible. Then she moved.

She wasn't donating the clothes.

She dragged three large suitcases from the storage loft. She began stuffing them. The Birkins went first. Inside the lining of a crocodile skin Kelly bag, she tucked a stack of cash she had been siphoning from the grocery budget for months.

She packed the jewelry he had given her-the pieces that weren't insured by the family trust.

She took photos of everything and uploaded them to a private chat with a buyer from The RealReal. She had set this up weeks ago under an alias.

Buyer: I can take the lot. Cash payout. Pickup tomorrow at 10 AM.

Carly: Done.

She zipped the bags shut. She sat on the edge of the bed, her heart racing.

She had the money. She had the evidence. But it wasn't enough. Brice had the best lawyers in New York. They would bury her in paperwork until she ran out of cash.

She needed a shark.

She opened her laptop and searched for a name. Damon Yates.

The search results were terrifying. "The Devil's Advocate." "The Man Who Never Lost." And most importantly: "Brice Salazar's friend."

She checked his schedule. He was attending the Tech Summit Gala tomorrow night.

Brice was going too. He had forbidden her from attending, saying it was "business only."

Carly looked at the empty space in the closet where a red Valentino gown used to hang. She hadn't packed that one.

She walked over to the garment bag hanging on the back of the door. She unzipped it. The red silk shimmered like fresh blood.

She wasn't asking for permission anymore.