My Divorce Came With a Billionaire

Ninette's POV The migraine hit me like a freight train somewhere between the quarterly report and my third cup of terrible office coffee. Behind my eyes, pain bloomed sharp and vicious, the kind that made fluorescent lights feel like needles driving into my skull. I pressed my fingers to my temples and tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, but the numbers kept swimming. "You okay, Ninette?" Janet from accounting asked, not really caring about the answer. "Just a headache." I forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "I think I need to go home." My boss barely looked up when I stopped by his office. "Fine. Make sure the Henderson file is done by tomorrow." No concern. No "feel better." Just another reminder that I was replaceable. I grabbed my purse and rushed out before anyone could pile more work onto my already overflowing desk. The subway ride home was torture, every screech of the brakes sending fresh spikes of agony through my head. I kept my eyes closed and thought about my bed, my dark bedroom, the bottle of extra-strength pain medication on my nightstand. Damien would probably be at his "networking meeting" again. He had been having a lot of those lately. Part of me was grateful. At least I wouldn't have to pretend everything was fine while my head felt like it was splitting open. Our apartment building looked exactly like every other one on the block, beige and forgettable. I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking from the pain. The lock finally clicked open and I stumbled inside, kicking off my heels without caring where they landed. The apartment was dim with curtains drawn; perfect. I headed toward the bedroom, already reaching for the buttons on my blouse. That's when I heard it. A softy and breathy moan, like something from a badly acted adult film coming from my bedroom. My blood turned to ice despite the fever burning behind my eyes and my feet moved forward even though every instinct screamed at me to run. My hand touched the bedroom door, and some distant part of my brain noticed it was already cracked open. I pushed it wider. The scene before me didn't make sense at first. My brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing. Damien, my husband of three years, was on our bed. The bed with the navy sheets I'd washed just this morning, the ones that still smelled like the lavender detergent I loved. But he wasn't alone. Tessa was underneath him; my best friend since sophomore year of college, the woman who had been my maid of honor, who I'd cried to about my marriage problems, who'd held my hand and told me Damien loved me, that I was being insecure, that I needed to trust him more. They were having s*x. Not just having s*x. They were lost in it, their bodies moving together with a sync that spoke of practice and familiarity. This wasn't the first time. This wasn't even the tenth time. The scream that tore from my throat didn't sound human. It was raw and jagged, ripped from somewhere deep in my chest where all my worst fears had been living. I screamed until my voice cracked, until my throat burned worse than my migraine. Damein’s head turned but not quickly, not with shock or shame. He glanced over his shoulder like I was an interruption, an annoyance. His face was flushed with exertion, and what I saw in his eyes wasn't guilt. It was irritation. Tessa looked at me too and she smiled. Not a sheepish, caught smile or an apologetic grimace. A real smile, satisfied and cruel, like this was exactly what she wanted. Like my pain was the dessert after the main course. Then they kept going. They kept f*****g while I stood there screaming. Damein’s hips kept moving and Tessa's nails raked down his back. They moved harder now, faster, like my presence added something to their pleasure. My legs gave out. I stumbled backward, hitting the doorframe hard enough to bruise. The room spun around me, or maybe I was spinning. I couldn't tell anymore. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except stumble away from that bedroom, from those sounds, from the complete destruction of everything I thought was real. I grabbed my purse from where I had dropped it by the door. My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn't get the doorknob to turn. Behind me, I heard Tessa's moans rise to a crescendo, heard Damein grunt, and I knew they'd finished. I ran down the hallway, down the stairs because waiting for the elevator felt impossible. Out into the afternoon sunlight that stabbed into my migraine like a thousand tiny knives. I ran until I couldn't run anymore, until my lungs burned and my legs trembled and I found myself standing in front of a four stars hotel three blocks from my apartment, The Riverside Hotel. The kind of place Damein and I couldn't afford but that businesspeople expensed without thinking about it. I walked inside like I belonged there, like I hadn't just watched my entire life implode. The lobby was all marble and gold accents and a chandelier that probably cost more than my annual salary. At the front desk, a young woman with perfect makeup smiled at me. "Can I help you?" "I need a room." My voice sounded distant, like it was coming from underwater. "Just for tonight." She didn't ask about luggage or why I looked like death. She just processed my credit card, handed me a key card, and directed me to the elevators. Room 412. I made it inside, locked the door, and collapsed against it. My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out with shaking hands. Fifteen missed calls and twenty-three text messagesfrom Damein. I opened the first one. “Ninette, you're overreacting. Come home so we can talk about this like adults.” Then the second: “It didn't mean anything. You're being dramatic.” The third: “You're seriously going to throw away our marriage over one mistake?” One mistake. Like I'd caught him leaving the toilet seat up. I scrolled through the rest. They got progressively angrier, more accusatory. By the end, he was calling me names I had never heard him use before, telling me I was too sensitive, too emotional, too fat to expect him to stay faithful. The messages from Tessa were worse: “I'm sorry you had to find out this way.” “Marcus and I didn't mean for this to happen.” “He's been unhappy for so long. You must have known.” “I hope we can still be friends.” I threw my phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor, hopefully broken. I wanted everything broken, I wanted the whole world to shatter the way my life just had. The migraine that brought me home early felt like nothing compared to the pain in my chest. I couldn't cry. The tears wouldn't come. I just sat there on the hotel room floor, staring at nothing, until the sun started setting outside my window. Finally, I dragged myself up. Went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. When had I become this person? This woman with tired eyes and shoulders that slumped like they carried the weight of the world? When had I started believing I deserved this? I needed a drink. Or ten. The hotel bar was on the ground floor, tucked away in a corner of the lobby with dim lighting and soft jazz playing from hidden speakers. It was early evening, so the place was mostly empty. A few businesspeople in suits occupied tables near the windows, but the bar itself was deserted. I slid onto a stool and caught the bartender's attention. He was young, probably twenty-five, with kind eyes and a practiced smile. "What can I get you?" "Tequila." My voice was hoarse from screaming. "Just keep them coming." His smile faltered slightly, but he didn't ask questions. He poured the first shot and set it in front of me with a lime wedge and salt. I skipped the salt and lime, and threw back the shot. The burn felt good, felt real. I tapped the bar for another. By the fourth shot, the bartender was giving me concerned looks. By the sixth, the edges of reality started getting fuzzy. The pain in my chest dulled to a manageable ache instead of a screaming wound. That's when he sat down beside me.