Too Late, Billionaire: Watch Me Leave

The taxi dropped her off in front of a rundown, red-brick walk-up in Brooklyn. Ciara paid the driver and stepped onto the cracked, wet pavement.

She used an old, slightly rusted key to open the main door, then climbed three flights of stairs. The smell of dust and old books hit her as she unlocked the door to her old apartment.

This was her secret. Her sanctuary. The place where she wasn't Mrs. Webb, but LUNA, the anonymous, sought-after designer behind a cult couture label.

She dropped her soaked blazer on the floor. She walked to the far wall and moved a large, abstract painting to the side, revealing a flush-mounted safe.

She entered the code. The safe clicked open.

Inside were stacks of cash, several fake passports under different names, and the keys to a series of offshore accounts. This was her freedom. Her escape fund.

A sudden, violent banging on the door made her jump. The old wood rattled in its frame.

Ciara's blood ran cold. She slammed the safe shut, pushed the painting back into place, and crept to the door.

She peered through the peephole.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was Jordon. His face was dark, furious. Behind him, two of his bodyguards stood like stone sentinels, completely blocking the narrow hallway.

The banging stopped. "Ciara, open this door right now," his voice was a low, dangerous command. "Don't test my patience."

She took a breath, unlatched the chain, and pulled the door open. She met his furious gaze with a calm, empty stare.

Jordon stormed into the tiny apartment, his large frame making the space feel even smaller. He looked around at the worn furniture with undisguised contempt.

"What is this? What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, turning on her. "Did you really think you could hide from me? I placed a micro-tracker in the lining of your vintage leather bag three years ago, the day we got married. You are my wife; you don't get to have secrets."

Ciara didn't answer. She walked to an old wooden desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a folder.

"You will come back to the penthouse now," Jordon continued, his voice laced with the arrogance of a man who had never been disobeyed. "If this little tantrum of yours affects the Webb family image, I will have our lawyers bury you."

A dry, humorless smile touched her lips.

She turned around and slapped the folder down on the scarred surface of the desk.

The title on the top page was in bold, black letters: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

Her signature, Ciara Novak, was already scrawled at the bottom, the ink sharp and final.

Jordon's eyes locked onto the words. His pupils constricted. For the first time, she saw a crack in his iron control. A flash of pure disbelief.

He looked up, his gaze searching her face for a sign, any sign that this was a bluff, a game.

He found none. Her eyes were as cold and hard as diamonds.

"I don't want your money," she said, her voice steady. "I'm waiving all alimony. I just want out."

The raw shock on his face was quickly replaced by a possessive fury. He lunged forward, his fingers clamping around her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

"You don't end this," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "I do. This is my game, my rules."

The pressure on her jaw was immense, but she didn't flinch. She didn't look away.

She raised her right hand, the one with the angry, blistered burn, and smacked his hand away.

The sharp sound echoed in the silent apartment.

"Sign it," she said, her voice a blade of ice.

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