The Secret Diary Of My Ruthless Ex-Husband

The heavy pounding on the wooden door vibrated through the floorboards of the cramped Maplewood apartment.

Haven flinched. Her stomach twisted into a tight, violent knot. She looked through the peephole. The dim hallway light cast harsh shadows over Clayton's broad shoulders.

He was leaning against the doorframe, his head bowed.

Haven unlocked the deadbolt. Before she could even pull the door open, Clayton's large palm slammed against the wood. He forced his way into the entryway. A blast of freezing early-winter air rushed in with him.

Haven tried to push him back out. Her hands pressed flat against the hard, solid muscle of his chest. It was useless. He didn't even budge. Instead, his forward momentum forced her to stumble backward.

Clayton reached behind him and slammed the apartment door shut. The loud crack echoed off the narrow walls. The exit was gone.

He dropped his head. His chin rested heavily in the crook of her neck. The overwhelming stench of expensive whiskey and stale cold air hit her face. His hot breath ghosted over her bare collarbone.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, the words slurred and broken. It sounded like a desperate confession, but the meaning was lost in his thick tongue.

A violent shiver ripped down Haven's spine. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She grabbed handfuls of her own oversized t-shirt, trying to ground herself.

His massive arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his body in a crushing embrace that stole the air from her lungs.

But he didn't kiss her. He just held her, swaying slightly, his face buried in her shoulder.

The sheer exhaustion of the day collided with the pathetic, lingering love she still harbored for him.

Then, Clayton pushed back. He looked down at her, his bloodshot eyes clearing slightly.

Haven swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper. "Clayton," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I need your help. I need a lawyer. Warren Adler fired me today without cause. I need you to represent me."

The heavy, suffocating tension in the room shifted.

The warmth in Clayton's eyes died. It was replaced by a chilling, absolute ice.

He pushed himself away from her body. He stood up slowly, his movements stiff and mechanical. He reached down and snatched his tailored suit jacket off the armrest.

Haven sat up, her clothes rumpled. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve.

Clayton jerked his arm away. He stepped back, putting physical distance between them.

He looked down at her. The corner of his mouth curled into a cruel, mocking sneer. "You think I'd risk my reputation for a lost-cause labor dispute? Find a public defender."

Tears of pure, burning humiliation pricked Haven's eyes. Her chest tightened so hard she couldn't breathe. She grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa and hurled it at his face with all her strength.

Clayton dodged it effortlessly. He gave her one last, dead-eyed look. He turned his back on her and walked toward the entryway with steady, purposeful strides.

The front door slammed shut again. The silence in the apartment was deafening. The faint scent of his cedarwood cologne lingered in the air, mocking her.

Haven leaped off the sofa. Her bare feet slapped against the cold hardwood floor. She ran to the window and ripped the blinds open. She stared down at the dark Maplewood street.

She watched Clayton walk toward his black Range Rover. His steps were slightly uneven. He pulled the door open and climbed into the driver's seat.

The engine roared to life, cutting through the quiet night.

The tears in Haven's eyes dried up, burned away by a sudden, blinding rage.

She turned around and snatched her phone off the coffee table. Her fingers punched in 9-1-1.

"Yes," Haven said, her voice terrifyingly calm and steady. "I need to report a drunk driver. A black Range Rover. License plate C-S-8-8-2. He just pulled out onto Maplewood Avenue. He is highly intoxicated."