Married The Richest Man After I Left My Cheating Ex

1 The fabric of Hazel’s sleeve was so thin you could practically see through it. It was covered in little fuzzy pills of gray lint, the kind that only happens when a shirt has been washed a thousand times because the owner just couldn't afford a new one. "Hazel, honey, look at you," her coworker, Sarah, said with a sigh. They were closing up the small cafe where they both worked the late shift. "That shirt is screaming for mercy. There’s a sale at the mall. Even ten dollars would get you something that doesn't look like it survived a war.” Hazel Penelope Ward just gave a small, tired smile. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and shrugged. "It still covers my skin, Sarah. It’s fine. Why throw away something that still works? That’s just a waste of money." "See you tomorrow, you stubborn girl," Sarah called out as Hazel headed for the door. As soon as the bell chimed and Hazel was out of earshot, the atmosphere in the cafe shifted. The remaining staff leaned in close over the counter. "I don't get it," one of the baristas whispered. "Hazel is the top student in our year. She has three scholarships. She works here, she tutors, and she does freelance coding. She should have more money than all of us combined. Why does she dress like that?" Sarah shook her head, her face full of pity. "She doesn't spend a dime on herself because she’s too busy pouring every cent into that black hole she calls a boyfriend.” "Brooks?" the barista asked. "The guy who says he's a 'professional singer'?" "Singer? Please," Sarah scoffed. "He’s a high-end leech. He spends his nights at the Gold bar, flirting with older, rich women so they’ll buy him drinks and designer shoes. Everyone in the city knows he’s a gigolo except for poor, sweet Hazel. She thinks he’s a misunderstood artist." "No way," the group gasped. "She's so smart. How can she be that blind?” • • Hazel didn't hear any of the gossip, of course. She was too busy feeling a glow of excitement in her chest. Today was a big day. For six months, she had skipped meals. She had walked to work on a few occasions to save the change. She had worn her $1 market clothes until they were falling apart. All of it was for a reason. She pulled into the parking lot of a high-end boutique, her beat-up old car looking like a dusty brick among the other cars. Inside the store, she pulled out a thick envelope of cash. "I’d like to pick up the Italian silk suit I put on layaway," she told the clerk. It was Brooks' birthday today. He had been complaining that he couldn't get a big break in the music industry because he didn't have the look. He wanted to look like a star. Hazel wanted to give him the world, even if it meant she had to live on instant noodles for another year. As she walked back to her car, clutching the expensive garment bag like it was made of gold, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text from her roommate, Maya. Maya: Hazel, I’m at the Gold Room with some friends. I just saw Brooks. He’s with a woman in a red dress. They just went into Private Room 200. He looked... really close to her. You need to get down here. Hazel’s heart didn't just skip a beat; it felt like it hit a wall. Her hands started to shake. ‘He’s working,’ she told herself. ‘He’s just networking. Maya is exaggerating.’ But she found herself starting the car anyway. Her foot hit the gas, and she drove toward the bar. When she got there, the Gold Room was loud, smelling of sweat. Hazel felt completely out of place in her pilling sweater and faded jeans. She pushed past the crowd, her eyes fixed on the hallway leading to the private VIP rooms. She reached Room 200. The door wasn't fully closed. A sliver of golden light spilled onto the carpet. Hazel reached for the handle, but her hand froze. She heard a laugh. It was a deep, smooth sound she knew by heart. Brooks. "Oh, Brooks, stop it," a woman’s voice giggled. "You're so bad. Doesn't your little girlfriend at the university mind you being out so late with me?" Hazel held her breath, waiting for him to defend her. Waiting for him to say, “She’s the love of my life.” Instead, Brooks let out a lazy, bored groan. "What girlfriend? You mean Hazel?" Brooks said, his voice dripping with mock exhaustion. "I haven't even touched her in months. She’s not a girlfriend; she’s more like a live-in maid. She cooks, she cleans my apartment, and she pays my rent because she thinks I’m going to be famous. Honestly, she’s so plain and boring, I have to close my eyes just to talk to her most of the time." The woman laughed harder. "That’s mean! If she heard you, she’d be devastated." "Who cares?" Brooks replied. Hazel could almost hear the shrug in his voice. "She’s like a stray dog. No matter how much I kick her or ignore her, she just keeps coming back, wagging her tail and handing me her paycheck. I couldn't get rid of her if I tried. She’s too stupid to realize she’s just a bank account with legs." Inside Hazel, something snapped. It wasn't a slow break. It was a violent, white-hot explosion. Every meal she had skipped, every insult she had ignored, every hour of overtime she had worked—it all rushed to her head like a tidal wave of fire. She didn't cry. She didn't tremble. She kicked the door open so hard it slammed against the wall with a bang that sounded like a gunshot. "Brooks Wilder! You disgusting, pathetic excuse for a man!" The room went silent. Brooks was lounging on a sofa, his arm draped around a woman who looked like she’d been dipped in diamonds. He looked startled for a split second, but then his face settled into a look of pure annoyance. "Hazel?" he asked, not even bothering to stand up. "What the hell are you doing here? Look at you. You’re a mess. You’re embarrassing me in front of my guest." Hazel walked into the room. Her eyes are no longer soft. They were cold, hard, and dangerous. "Embarrassing you?" Hazel’s voice was low, vibrating with a rage so intense the woman in red actually moved away from Brooks. "I spent three years of my life building you up while you tore me down. I wore rags so you could look good. I worked three jobs so you could sit in bars and pretend to be a 'star' when you're nothing but a parasite.” Brooks rolled his eyes. He reached for a glass of wine and took a sip. "Are you done with the drama? You're being hysterical. Go home, Hazel. Wash your face, buy a personality, and maybe I’ll call you in a week when I need my laundry done." The woman in red let out a mean little snicker. That was the final straw. Hazel looked down at the table. There was a full, unopened bottle of expensive champagne sitting in an ice bucket. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed the neck of the bottle. Brooks looked up, his eyes widening as he finally saw the look in her eyes. "Wait, Hazel, what are you—" Before he could get to complete his statement, Hazel swung the bottle with every ounce of strength she had. It connected squarely with the side of Brooks’ head. The sound was sickening. Glass shattered, and dark liquid sprayed everywhere, mixing with the sudden burst of red from his temple. Brooks tumbled off the sofa, groaning and clutching his head as he hit the floor. The woman in red screamed and scrambled into the corner. Hazel didn't stop. She stood over him, holding the broken, jagged neck of the bottle like a dagger. "You think I'm a stupid b***h?" Hazel hissed, her voice sounding like sharpening steel. "You think I'm just a maid who will always come crawling back?” Brooks looked up at her, blood leaking through his fingers, his face twisted in genuine terror. "Hazel... stop... I was just joking..." "I'm not joking," she said. She stepped on his hand—the hand she had held so many times—and ground her shoes into his knuckles. She reached into the bag in her grip and pulled out the expensive garment bag containing the Italian suit. She ripped it open, took the beautiful, costly jacket, and threw it onto the floor, right into the puddle of spilled wine and his own blood. "Happy birthday, Brooks," she spat. "Use it to soak up the mess you made.”