EX-HUSBAND'S BOSS FOR VALENTINE

SERVED

MELANIA:

Brady’s relationship with me is a rollercoaster, and I know he has hurt me several times, but openly choosing another woman is a different kind of hurt I cannot explain. As I make my way out of the building, the flashes from the paparazzi die down, but the ache in my chest intensifies, clouding my mind and barely allowing me to reason.

I walk down the street and onto the main road, directionless, jumping into the road like a madwoman without even realizing it until I hear a loud horn blaring at me and the floodlights of the car capturing my face. I close my eyes, waiting to get hit, but the car comes to a halt inches away from me. The driver rolls down the window.

“Are you crazy or something!” he yells, and I remain there, dumbfounded.

“That’s enough,” I hear someone say from the car, and in that moment, the door to the backseat flies open at once, and a man above six feet steps out of the car in a crisp suit. He walks up to me with a smile hanging on his face.

“I am sorry for my driver’s behavior,” he says, and I keep staring at his gorgeous brown eyes, which glisten under the dimly lit night sky. “Are you hurt?” His hand brushes against mine, drawing me back to reality, and I shake my head.

“No… I… I’m fine.” I stutter, which is shocking because no man makes Melania Chestwick stutter—not even Brady. “I should get going,” I say to him, but he grips my hand.

“Let me drop you off.” I glance at him.

“My clothes are a mess, and I—”

“I can always wash my car,” he cuts me off, and I press my lips together. “At least as an apology for almost hitting you,” he says, and I hesitate for a moment, but then I realize there is nothing to hold on to. My husband is with another woman.

“Thank you. I’m heading to the Star city Hotel,” I say to him, and he leads me gently to the car. I get in, and he follows, then the driver speeds off.

The entire ride is quiet, and I am glad he doesn’t want to start an uncomfortable conversation. We continue until we reach the hotel, then he gets down from the car, opens it, and helps me out.

“Have a good day, miss,” he says, then his driver speeds off. It is weird that he doesn’t hit on me, but another part of me is glad, and I am too busy with my failing marriage to even care.

As the surrounding air thickens, I march into the elevator, which takes me to the floor of our room. Once I get there, I swipe the card on the door, and as soon as it opens, I rush inside, slamming the door behind me. I rush to the vanity, sliding my four fingers between my throat and necklace, then I yank off the piece, grabbing the table as I stare at my reflection, my chest rising and falling erratically.

I have taken enough, but I still love him. A thousand thoughts swirl around my head as I walk to the closet, pulling out my box and taking out the divorce letter I printed earlier. “You are overreacting, Mel,” I say to myself as I stare at the paper with shaky hands. Then I heave a sigh, opening the small fridge in the room to grab a bottle of wine.

**

The next day, I wake up to my phone blasting with a lot of messages. Some are from my parents, aunts, uncles, etc. Before I can open any, my phone rings, and I check the display to see my sister’s name written on it boldly.

“Melania, what is going on?” Ophelia asks, and I open my mouth to answer, but I hear my father’s voice. He is angry.

“Is that Melania?” he yells. “Give me the phone.” I can picture his face, and my heart races as I brace myself for the worst.

“I knew you were going to ruin this family, but I didn’t expect you to disgrace us publicly. A Chestwick is the face of mockery in the entire LA!” he barks. “If you no longer want anything to do with this family, then sever ties and keep moving around with that dog who cannot even afford a bottle of water for the Chestwicks!”

“Dad, I’m sor—” he ends the call before I finish, and I toss my phone away, shutting my eyes with my hand on my head.

It takes a moment to realize my bed is empty, which means my husband didn’t return the previous night, which means he is with that b***h. My eyes flutter open, and my brows wrinkle. Then I push myself out of bed. I try to convince myself he probably crashed in the other room since it’s a double suite, and he might have come in late and didn’t want to disturb me. But then I hear a woman giggle in our suite.

Not just any woman—it is Portia.

Anger surges through me, and I walk to the vanity, grabbing the papers there. Without thinking twice, I walk to his room, opening the door to see him sitting on the bed with Portia, their hands intertwined and Portia all smiles.

“Melania,” Brady calls out the moment he spots me. Portia lowers her voice, rubbing Brady’s hand sensually. It breaks my heart, but I try to maintain a strong demeanor.

“What is the meaning of this, Brady?” I ask as I stare at him. Then he intertwines his hands with Portia’s, looking into her eyes like I do not exist and I haven’t asked a question.

“Portia and I made an excellent team last night,” he begins. “And we closed the deal,” he looks at me, expecting a cheer from me or something. “So we were thinking…” He pauses, and I watch Portia lean in to kiss my husband on the cheek.

“Thinking what, Brady?” My voice rises, and his brows crease.

“Are you raising your voice at me?” he asks, and Portia rubs his chest, whispering sweet nothings into his ears. Then she faces me.

“We make such a good team, so we were thinking I could act as Brady’s wife during his important meetings while you stay home as the dumb wife.” Her words slice through my chest, but it only makes Brady chuckle.

“That way I can make so much money to maintain you,” Brady says to me like he is doing me a favor.

“And work involves sharing a bedroom with my husband at night while I sleep cold and alone after getting humiliated?”

Brady groans as I speak.

“You are talking so much, Melania!” he growls, getting to his feet. Then I scoff.

“Then allow me the honor of remaining permanently silent,” I say to him. His brows wrinkle while I slam the paper in my hand on his chest.

“What the hell is this?” he questions, and my lips curve into a smile.

“You, of all people, should know what a divorce letter looks like.” His eyes widen as I say this.