EX-HUSBAND'S BOSS FOR VALENTINE

GIVE ME A NAME

Royal:

The hum of the jet does nothing to silence the storm raging in my head. I sit back in the leather seat, my jaw clenched, fingers tapping against my knee. The pilot announces we’re ready for takeoff, but I barely process his words. My mind is stuck elsewhere—Melania.

I exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. I shouldn’t be thinking about her, and I shouldn’t care, because this is just a business deal, a means to an end. So why the hell does my chest feel tight? Like I’m making a mistake?

As the jet begins to taxi down the runway, I snap without thinking.

“Stop the plane!”

There is a slight pause before the pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom. “Sir?”

“I said stop the f*****g plane!” I cannot tell why I’m angry, but the feeling is there, and I want nothing more than to get off this plane.

The jet slows, and before anyone can question me, I unbuckle my belt, grab my phone, and storm toward the exit.

“Mr. Montclair—”

“Clear the stairs!” I bark.

By the time my feet hit the tarmac, I don’t stop moving. I rush to my car, open the door, and slam it shut, then rest my head for a moment on the wheel. What the f**k is wrong with me? I question myself, but there is no one to answer.

I don’t know why I’m doing this, and I tell myself it’s because of the deal. Because I can’t afford complications, and women are unpredictable. If I’m not there to keep her in line, she’ll burn the whole arrangement to the ground, I say to myself, trying hard to convince myself that it is not because of the way she called my name last night, which keeps echoing in my head. And definitely not because I can’t stomach the thought of leaving her behind.

By the time I drive into the house, my mind is a little more collected, and I try to keep my breath steady in order not to do something that will make her sad, as I am an unpredictable character myself. As I push through the front door, I expect to see her taking up space somewhere visible—maybe reading a book—but the living area is bare. I make my way up the stairs, knocking on the door, and when there is no response, I pull it open to find it empty.

The smell of one of my colognes hangs in the air. She left the house? The thought of it makes me mad, and I shut the door at once, stomping downstairs.

A maid steps into my path, but before she can even open her mouth, I growl, “Where is she?”

The staff around exchange nervous glances.

“I asked a f*****g question. Where the f**k is she?” My patience is razor-thin, and I fear what I might do.

Tom, the guard I assigned to her, steps forward hesitantly. “Sir, she left.”

My head snaps at him. “She what?”

“She, uh… threatened to ram through the gate if we didn’t let her out.”

For a brief second, I try to picture her saying that, and a part of me finds it amusing. But the amusement dies as quickly as it comes. I roll my shoulders back, forcing my expression to remain neutral.

“And no one thought to inform me?”

“Sir, I—”

I don’t let him finish. I whip out my phone, walking away as I dial her number. It goes through, but she doesn’t pick up, and it makes me wonder if she is mad at me.

Not everything revolves around you, Royal.

Then, just as I’m about to bark at my men to track her, I hear the sound of my 2025 Porsche Cayenne at the gate. She took that car? Well, it doesn’t matter. She is doing me a favor, and I can buy a hundred if I want to.

I make my way outside just as the gates slide open. She wheels the car in, coming to a halt in the parking lot. Before she steps out, I try to memorize what I will say, and it doesn’t make sense to me because why am I nervous around this woman? Maybe I should tell her how I feel.

The mental battle in my head continues until she steps out of the Porsche, and I glimpse her face. She looks troubled and shattered, with tears shimmering in her eyes.

Her shoulders tremble, her breathing unsteady, her lips parted as if she’s struggling to get enough air. I feel my chest tighten, and a strange feeling takes root in my gut.

Fuck the deal.

I move without thinking, and in three long strides, I am in front of her. She lifts her gaze to mine, and as she tries to move, she loses her footing, stumbling into my hands. My arms wrap around her, pulling her against my chest. She grips my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, and she lets her dam of tears break.

There is a strange feeling in my heart as I hear her sob. It pierces deep, hurting me as though I am the one in her shoes. I wrap my arms tighter around her protectively, and the surrounding staff disperses before I speak.

“What happened?” I find my voice, which comes out soft.

She doesn’t answer right away as her warm, shaky breath clouds my chest. I slide a hand into her hair, my fingers threading through the strands, trying to calm her.

Then she speaks.

“My ex-husband—he tried to—he almost r***d…”

I press her face harder to my chest to stop her from completing it as my blood runs cold. That bastard! I grit my teeth. She sobs harder, and it eats deeper into my chest while I stand there, thinking of the fastest way to send the fool to his grave.

Slowly, I pull her away from my body, then I cup her face in my hands.

“Give me a name, and I will end his life immediately. Please.”