The Placeholder Bride's Secret Billionaire Revenge

Kieran grabbed Jocelyn's uninjured arm, his fingers digging into her bicep. He pulled her roughly away from the mess, dragging her a few feet toward the edge of the circle.

"Apologize to Aspen," he hissed in her ear. "Now."

Jocelyn looked at him, incredulous. The pain in her hand was a steady drumbeat, but the shock of his blindness was worse. She was pale and trembling, the room still tilting slightly.

"She hurt me on purpose," Jocelyn said. "She squeezed my burn."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "She was checking your injury. Stop playing the victim. It's exhausting."

"I am not playing anything," Jocelyn said, her voice rising. "I quit, Kieran. I gave my notice this morning."

Kieran laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that made her skin crawl.

"You quit?" He looked at her like she was a child threatening to run away to the backyard. "You don't have anywhere to go. You need this job. You need me."

A crowd had gathered. Kieran's friends-the "Trust Fund Boys," a group of wealthy idlers-were snickering behind their hands.

"Is she causing trouble again?" one of them asked loudly.

Kieran released her arm and addressed the room, raising his voice slightly to be heard.

"Sorry everyone," he said, flashing a charming, apologetic smile. "Just a disgruntled employee. You know how it is."

He looked back at Jocelyn, his eyes dead.

"You were just an assistant, Jocelyn. Don't confuse your role."

The words hung in the air. Just an assistant.

Not a partner. Not a lover. Not the woman who had nursed him through the flu, who had managed his life, who had loved him.

Jocelyn felt the last thread of attachment snap. It was a physical sensation, like a rubber band breaking in her chest.

"Is that all I was?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," Kieran lied. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to impress Aspen. "And a mediocre one at that."

Aspen smirked behind him, brushing a speck of nonexistent dust from her gown.

Jocelyn straightened her spine. The humiliation burned hotter than her hand, but it also cauterized the wound. She felt a strange, cold clarity.

"Thank you for clarifying," she said. Her voice was steady.

She dropped the folder.

It hit the floor at Kieran's feet with a heavy thud.

"Here are your files," she said. "Pick them up yourself."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. No one spoke to Kieran Douglas like that.

Kieran's face turned a mottled red. "Jocelyn!"

She turned and walked away.

She didn't run. She walked. Her heels crunched on the broken glass, a satisfying sound.

She ignored the whispers. She ignored Kieran calling her name.

She reached the heavy double doors and pushed them open.

The muffled sound of the party faded as the doors swung shut behind her. She was in the lobby.

She walked faster now, the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving her shaking. She needed to get out.

She pushed through the revolving doors into the night.

It was raining. A cold, miserable New York drizzle that soaked through her blazer in seconds.

She stood on the curb, shivering, trying to hail a cab with her good hand. Her bandaged hand was throbbing so hard it made her nauseous.

A low growl cut through the noise of the traffic.

A car pulled up to the curb. It wasn't a taxi. It was a vintage silver Aston Martin DB5, a car that looked like it had driven straight out of a 1960s spy movie. She blinked through the rain, thinking, Of course he drives something this impractical. Probably blew the last of his money on it.

The window rolled down.