Divorced by the Devil Rider

CHAPTER 3 — No Money, No Home

The card didn’t just decline. It beeped. Loud. A harsh, electronic rejection that felt like a slap.

The cashier, a girl with messy eyeliner and a name tag that said ‘Beth,’ didn't even look up. She just stared at the screen like she was looking at a funeral.

"Declined," she said. She said it way too loud. The guy behind me, smelling like old gym socks and cheap espresso, let out a loud huff of air.

My face went hot. Not a cute blush—it felt like someone had hit me with a frying pan.

"That’s—no. Try it again. The chip is probably just dirty," I said. My voice was defensive, shrill. I was explaining myself to a girl who didn't care if I lived or died. It didn't matter. She swiped it again.

Beep. Declined.

Something twisted in my gut. I forced a jagged, fake laugh that sounded like glass breaking. "It’s definitely the machine. This happened at the cafe earlier."

A lie. I hadn't been to a cafe. My ego was just screaming, throwing out excuses that no one in the line believed. Beth didn't blink. She just stood there with her hand hovering over the 'void' button.

"You got another card? Or cash?"

I didn't have another card. Kade handled the accounts. Kade handled everything. I stood there, my fingers fumbling with my leather purse—the one he’d bought me in Milan—and felt like a total fraud.

"I don't... I’ll be back," I muttered.

I grabbed my bag too fast and hit my elbow on the plexiglass divider. It hurt like hell—a sharp, buzzing pain that made my eyes water. I didn't say sorry. I just turned and bolted. The automatic doors hissed open, and the humid city air hit me like a wet towel.

I pulled out my phone. My thumb was shaking so much I kept clicking the wrong icons.

[ACCOUNT ACCESS RESTRICTED]

The words were cold. Hard. Intentional. It wasn't a glitch; it was a lockout. Kade hadn't just divorced me. He’d erased my existence.

"Bastard," I whispered. I regretted it instantly. It sounded so small.

My phone vibrated. Unknown number. I snapped it open. "What?"

Silence. Then that same wet, heavy breathing. It sounded like someone was struggling to catch their breath through a straw. It was too close. Too intimate. I hung up, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I started walking. I didn't have a plan, just a destination. The apartment. If I could get inside, get my jewelry, my passport—I could survive.

The walk felt like miles. My heels—the ones Kade liked—clicked on the pavement. Tack. Tack. Tack. Too loud. A streetlight on the corner was flickering at a weird, slanted angle, casting long, jerky shadows that made me jump every time a car passed.

The lobby of my building was too quiet. Mark, the regular doorman, wasn't there. The marble floor was dusty, and a potted fern was tipped over, dirt spilling across the rug like a grave.

I swiped my keycard. Red light.

I swiped again. Faster. Harder. Red.

"No. No, no, no," I breathed. I hammered on the marble desk. "Mark? Is anyone here?"

Nothing. The elevators were dead. Just cold, empty shafts. My chest felt tight, like a wire was being wrapped around my lungs. Then I saw it—a white envelope taped to the stairwell door. My name was written in a cramped, ugly scrawl.

LUCIA.

I ripped it off, my nails catching on the tape. Inside was a cheap, generic motel keycard and a note:

Access Revoked. Security Risk.

"They can’t do this," I told the empty lobby. A stupid thing to say. They already had.

My phone buzzed. A message.

It was a photo of my bedroom. My clothes were shredded on the floor. My vanity mirror was smashed, a jagged 'X' carved into the glass. The photo was taken from the doorway. Someone had been there minutes ago.

Another message popped up: “You shouldn't have signed so fast.”

I backed away, my heels skidding on the dirt. I hit the glass door and fumbled with the handle. I needed to get out. I needed a crowd. I needed—

I stepped onto the sidewalk, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Then I heard it.

The low, uneven thrum of a motorcycle. Not the smooth purr of Kade’s bike. This was rougher. Like it was spitting gravel.

At the end of the block, a man sat on a blacked-out bike. No Hellhounds colors. Just a heavy, olive jacket. He had his helmet off.

It was Jax. The guy who had laughed at me in the lobby.

He wasn't looking at me like a "brother." He looked messy. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was picking at a scab on his knuckle. He looked like he’d been on a three-day bender.

"Kade sent me," Jax said. He sounded like he was lying. He looked at my throat, then my purse, then finally my eyes. He looked awkward, like he didn't know where to put his hands.

"I don't believe you," I said. My voice broke.

Jax's face went from awkward to ugly. He revved the engine—a sharp, violent burst of noise that made me flinch. The bike lurched forward, nearly tipping over. He scrambled to catch it, his boot slipping on a patch of oil. It wasn't a cool save; it was a clumsy, desperate grab.

"I said," Jax growled, his voice cracking with a high-pitched frustration, "get on the damn bike, Lucia. Kade's gone. He’s not coming back for the 'baggage'."

He reached out and grabbed the strap of my purse. He yanked it so hard I fell forward, my knees hitting the concrete.

"You're not bait anymore," Jax hissed, leaning down. I could smell the stale beer and cigarettes on him. "You're a trade-in. The cartel wants the girl, and Kade wants his territory back. It's a clean swap."

I looked at him, my vision blurring. This wasn't a rescue. This was the final sale.

"He wouldn't," I whispered.

"He already did," Jax said, pointing down the street.

The black SUV from the clinic was turning the corner. It wasn't stopping for me. It was stopping for Jax. He wasn't running—he was waiting for them to hand him a briefcase.

I realized then that Kade hadn't just erased me.

He’d sold me.