Ex Husband, You Will Beg Me

CHAPTER 2

Aria’s POV

I didn't pick up my phone.

I left it there on the sidewalk, screen cracked like a spider's web, that image still glowing through the fractures. The glass caught the afternoon light, turning Vanessa's smile into something fractured and monstrous. A businessman in an expensive suit nearly tripped over it, shot me an annoyed glare, and kept walking. Welcome to New York, where even your devastation was an inconvenience.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I shoved them into the pockets of my coat and forced my legs to move, though they felt like they belonged to someone else.

One foot in front of the other. It was all I'd been doing for years anyway: going through the motions, pretending everything was fine while my marriage dissolved around me like sugar in rain.

But this. This was different.

Pregnant. Vanessa was pregnant.

The word kept echoing in my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull until I wanted to scream just to drown it out. How long? How long had this been going on? The nausea rose in my throat, hot and acidic. Was he with her while I was waiting for him at home, while I was learning to cook his favourite meals that he never ate, while I was dying slowly in that penthouse made of glass and lies?

I found myself walking without direction, letting the city pull me along in its current. My heels clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that matched my racing heartbeat.

Street signs blurred past. The sun dipped lower, painting the buildings gold and amber, the light so beautiful it hurt to look at. Everything was always so beautiful in this city, even when your world was ending.

I needed a new phone. The thought cut through the fog of shock like a knife. There was a*****e on the corner, all white walls and minimalist design that felt as sterile as a hospital. I walked in like a ghost, the air conditioning hitting my flushed skin and making me shiver.

I pointed at something expensive and handed over Damien's credit card, savouring the small, petty satisfaction of it. One last gift from my Ex-husband. The irony tasted like copper on my tongue.

"Will you be transferring your data?" the sales associate asked. She was young, probably twenty-two, with perfect eyeliner and a smile that hadn't been broken yet. Her cheerfulness grated against my raw nerves.

"No," I said, my voice hoarse. "Fresh start."

She mistook my tone for excitement, her eyes lighting up. "Good for you! New year, new you, right?"

Wrong season, wrong life, wrong everything. But I smiled anyway. I smiled and swallowed down the screams. "Right."

Twenty minutes later, I was walking out with a new phone and a new number, the device heavy and unfamiliar in my hand. I only saved two contacts: Maya and my lawyer. Everyone else could stay in the past where they belonged, buried like bodies I didn't want to dig up.

I checked the time. Six-thirty. The gallery opened at seven.

I should go home, to the apartment I hadn't even seen yet. I should process this and fall apart in private like a reasonable person. I’d locked myself in a bathroom and cried until there was nothing left. But I'd already spent years falling apart in private, sobbing into expensive towels while Damien worked late, and where had that gotten me?

So instead, I hailed a cab and gave him the gallery address, my voice steadier than my hands.

The Meridian Gallery sat in Brooklyn, all exposed brick and industrial windows that let the dying light pour in like honey. The warm glow made everything inside look soft and romantic, like a painting itself. I could see Maya through the glass, her wild curls piled on top of her head, gesturing animatedly at someone I couldn't quite make out. She was wearing that red dress I'd helped her pick out last month, the one that made her look like she could set the world on fire.

God, I'd missed her. Really missed her, not just the surface-level coffee dates that Damien had deemed "appropriate" for his wife. Not the carefully curated friendship he'd allowed me to maintain.

I pushed through the door, and a wave of warmth hit me, the scent of wine and perfume and the particular energy of people pretending to understand art. Maya's head snapped toward me like she had some kind of best-friend radar.

"Aria!"

She was across the gallery in seconds, pulling me into a hug that smelled like jasmine and paint thinner and safety.

"You came. I wasn't sure you would after….how are you? Stupid question. You look amazing, which either means you're fine or you're in complete denial."

"Option B," I whispered into her shoulder, breathing her in, trying not to fall apart right here in front of all these strangers.

She pulled back, studying my face with those sharp artist's eyes that saw too much. Her smile faded. "What happened?"

"Later," I promised, my throat tight. "Tonight is about you. Show me everything."

Maya hesitated, her fingers tightening on my arms. But then someone called her name from across the gallery, and she squeezed my hand.

"Okay. But we're talking after. And Aria? Julian is here. The guy I told you about. He's…” she studied me for a while. “Just trust me, okay?"

Before I could respond, she was gone, swept up in a conversation with a woman who looked like she bought art by the pound, all sharp angles and sharper jewellery.

I drifted toward the nearest painting, grateful for the excuse to be alone with my thoughts. It was one of Maya's; I'd know her style anywhere. Bold strokes, colours that shouldn't work together but somehow did, like she'd found a way to make chaos beautiful. This one was called "Fracture", according to the small placard. It showed a woman made of mirrors, each piece reflecting something different. Some pieces showed her smiling. Some showed her screaming. None showed her the whole.

I stared at it until my vision blurred. It felt like looking into a mirror of myself.

"It's haunting, isn't it?"

The voice came from beside me: deep, warm, with an accent I couldn't quite place. British, maybe, but softened by years somewhere else. The sound of it made something in my chest flutter, unwelcome and unexpected.

I turned, and my breath caught.

He was tall, with dark hair that was just slightly too long to be corporate, and eyes the colour of aged whisky that caught the gallery light. He was wearing a charcoal suit that fit like it was made for him, but he'd loosened his tie like he couldn't quite commit to the formality. There was something about the way he stood: loose-limbed, confident, like he'd never doubted his right to take up space.

He was nothing like Damien.

"It is," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maya has a gift for showing what people hide."

"You know the artist?" Interest sparked in those whisky eyes.

"She's my best friend."

His smile shifted, becoming something more genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that made my stomach flip. "Then you must be Aria. I'm Julian Shaw."

He extended his hand, and I took it, hyperaware of the warmth of his palm against mine. His grip was firm and warm, and he didn't hold on a second longer than necessary. Point in his favour. Damien had always held hands like a power play, squeezing just hard enough to establish dominance.

"Maya mentioned you," I said carefully.

"Nothing good, I hope. I'd hate to have a reputation to live up to." His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, genuine laugh lines that suggested he did it often. "She said you do remarkable work with literacy programmes."

"I try." The automatic deflection came before I could stop it.

"Maya also said you'd deflect any compliment I gave you, so I came prepared." He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times with long, elegant fingers, then handed it to me. "This is the program I'm trying to build. A foundation that partners with existing nonprofits to expand their reach. We provide funding, infrastructure, and connections. But I need someone who understands the work from the inside. Someone who's done it, not just studied it."

I scrolled through the proposal on his screen, trying to focus on the words instead of the way he smelled, something clean and woodsy that made me want to lean closer. It was impressive, ambitious, but grounded, with real numbers and realistic goals. This wasn't some rich man's pet project to make himself feel good. This was serious.

"Why me?" I asked, handing back his phone, our fingers brushing for half a second. "You could hire anyone."

"Because Maya showed me the results from your literacy programme. In two years, you took a failing initiative and turned it into something that actually changed lives. You didn't just throw money at the problem; you got in there and fixed it. That's what I need."

Something warm unfurled in my chest, dangerous and intoxicating. When was the last time someone had recognised my work? When was the last time anyone had seen me as more than Damien Cross's decorative wife, a pretty accessory to wear to galas and then forget about?

"I just signed my divorce papers today," I heard myself say, the words spilling out before I could stop them. Heat flooded my cheeks.

"I'm probably not in the best headspace to make career decisions."

Julian's expression shifted, not to pity, thank God, but to something like understanding.

"Then don't decide now. Take my card. Think about it. Call me when you're ready."

He handed me a business card, his fingers brushing mine for just a second. The contact was brief and professional, but I felt it everywhere, a spark that travelled up my arm and settled somewhere in my chest.

"Julian!" Someone called from across the gallery, shrill and imperious. "There you are. I need your opinion on the Rothstein piece."

He grimaced, and the expression was so boyish it made him look younger. "Art collectors. They think because they have money, they have taste." He turned back to me, and his eyes held mine for a beat too long. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Aria. I hope to hear from you soon."

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, and I was standing there holding his card like it might disappear if I wasn't careful. The cardstock was thick, expensive, and embossed. Real. Solid. A promise of something I didn't dare hope for.

"So?" Maya materialised at my elbow like a magician, her grin wicked. "What did you think?"

"I think you're not subtle."

"Subtle is for people who have time. You don't. What did you think of him?"

I watched Julian across the gallery. He was laughing at something an older woman was saying, his head thrown back, and it didn't look forced. He seemed genuinely present, genuinely interested. So different from Damien's calculated charm, the way he'd smiled at people while looking through them, already thinking about his next move.

"I think he's nice," I said carefully.

Maya snorted, rolling her eyes. "Nice. You're impossible. He's gorgeous, successful, and genuinely interested in your work, not just your face or your connections. That's not nice, Aria. That's a miracle."

"Maya…"

"I know, I know. Too soon. Fresh divorce. Wounded heart."

She turned me to face her, her hands warm on my shoulders, her eyes fierce. "But Aria? You're allowed to be happy. You're allowed to want things. You're allowed to take up space in your own life."

My throat tightened, tears burning behind my eyes. "What if I don't remember how?"

"Then you learn. Again. And I'll be right here to remind you." She pulled me into another hug, and I let myself lean into it, just for a moment, breathing in the scent of her perfume and letting myself feel safe. My new phone buzzed in my purse, the vibration harsh against my hip. Unknown number. My blood went cold. Every muscle in my body tensed.

"I have to take this," I told Maya, pulling away.

"Aria…"

But I was already walking toward the gallery exit, my heels clicking against the polished concrete, my heart hammering. I stepped outside into the cooling evening air and answered with trembling fingers.

"Hello?"

"Wondering how I got your new number? Aria." The same poisoned-honey voice from before, smooth and smug.

"I don't even know what games you are playing. Who are you?" I snapped, anger cutting through my fear. My free hand clenched into a fist. "What do you want?"

"I want to give you what you deserve. Justice. Revenge. The truth. All of it. But are you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"Everything Damien Cross has. His company. His reputation. His Shares." Real venom dripped from that last word, making my skin crawl. "I can help you take it all, if you allow me."

My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought they might c***k. "Why would you help me?"

"Because he doesn't deserve what he has. And neither does she." There was real venom in that last word, something personal and raw. "Check your new email. I sent you a preview of what I'm offering.”

"Wait..."

The line went dead with a click that echoed in my ear. I pulled up my email with shaking hands, my fingers slipping on the screen. One new message. No sender name. The subject line read: "The Truth About Your Marriage".

My mouth went dry. My pulse pounded in my temples.

I clicked it.

The email opened to reveal a single document attachment, and my finger hovered over the attachment. The street noise faded away until all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.

Behind me, through the gallery window, I could see Julian talking to Maya. He said something that made her laugh, then glanced toward the door like he was looking for me. For half a second, our eyes met through the glass, and something passed between us. Something like possibility.

I could delete this email. Take Julian's card, build a new life, and leave the past behind, like everyone said you were supposed to do after a divorce. Be the bigger person. Move on. Let Damien and Vanessa have their happy ending while I pick up the pieces alone.

Or I could click that attachment. Open Pandora's box. Find out exactly what Damien and Vanessa had done to me. Find out how long I'd been the played.

My phone buzzed again, making me jump. A text from an unknown number:

“Aria. You only get one shot at revenge.”

I looked up at the darkening sky, at the first stars fighting to be seen through the city lights and the pollution. Then I clicked the attachment.

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my new phone.

The document opened, and the first line made my blood run cold:

CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT: The undersigned parties agree that the relationship between Damien Cross and Vanessa Laurent, including any resulting pregnancy, shall remain undisclosed for the duration of Damien Cross's marriage to Aria Winters...

The words swam before my eyes. I had to read them twice, three times before they made sense.

The date at the top was from six years ago.

One month before Damien proposed to me. This was becoming intense…. I wonder what would be revealed next.