Marrying My Cheating Ex's Billionaire Boss

Alena dragged her suitcase out of the JFK arrivals terminal. The biting November wind whipped against her neck, forcing her to pull the collar of her trench coat tight against her skin.

She pulled her phone from her pocket, her thumb hovering over the power button. She couldn't wait to hear Darrin's voice.

The screen lit up. Instantly, a barrage of notifications flooded the glass. Fifteen unread messages. The rapid, sharp pings vibrating against her palm made her stomach tighten.

She tapped the top message from her best friend. It was a link marked urgent.

The webpage stalled for a fraction of a second. Then, a massive, high-resolution photo loaded onto her screen.

The air vanished from Alena's lungs.

It was the grand ballroom of The Plaza Hotel. In the center of the frame, her fiancé, Darrin, was kissing a woman. He was holding her face, his eyes closed in deep devotion.

The woman was Katrina. Alena's older sister.

Alena's fingers began to shake. The tremor started in her wrists and violently traveled up her arms. She tapped Darrin's contact and pressed call.

The phone rang once before a cold, automated voice informed her she had reached his voicemail.

The last shred of hope in her chest snapped.

She spun around and stepped into the street, throwing her hand up. A yellow cab screeched to a halt. The driver took one look at her pale, bloodless face and hesitated.

Alena didn't speak. She ripped a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet and threw it onto the passenger seat.

The cab lurched forward, crawling through the brutal Manhattan rush hour. Outside the window, the neon lights of the city blurred into sharp, stinging streaks of color.

Her mind raced, flashing back to just a week ago when Darrin had held her hands, looking deeply into her eyes and promising her a lifetime of loyalty. The memory of his soft, assuring voice now felt like a serrated blade sawing against her ribs. How long had this been going on? How long had Katrina been smiling at her across the dinner table, playing the supportive older sister, while secretly sleeping with the man Alena was supposed to marry? Katrina had always competed with her-for their parents' attention, for the best grades, for the spotlight-but this was a level of cruelty Alena couldn't comprehend. The sheer magnitude of the betrayal suffocated her.

Tears finally spilled over her eyelashes, hot and fast, burning her cold cheeks.

When the cab stopped, Alena shoved the door open. The Plaza Hotel loomed above her. The heavy glass revolving doors were pushed open by a doorman.

The faint, elegant sound of a cello drifted out from the lobby. It sounded like a dull blade scraping against her eardrums.

She lifted the hem of her coat and walked toward the grand ballroom. Two security guards in dark suits stepped into her path, blocking the entrance.

"Invitation, please," one of them said.

Alena stared at his chest. "I am Alena Payne. The second daughter of the Payne family. Get out of my way."

The guard's eyes widened slightly. He stepped aside.

Alena pushed the heavy, carved wooden doors open. The blinding light from the crystal chandeliers hit her eyes like a physical strike.

She blinked through the pain. The room was dripping in wealth. Champagne towers, orchids, and hundreds of New York's elite.

She walked straight through the crowd. People turned to look at her, their eyes filled with shock and thinly veiled disgust.

Alena's spine went rigid, but she kept her chin high, forcing her legs to keep moving.

She stopped at the edge of the main stage. She tilted her head back. Darrin and Katrina were standing there, a massive tiered cake between them.

Alena opened her mouth, but her throat felt like it was packed with broken glass. No sound came out.

Katrina saw her first. The delicate, blushing smile on her sister's face froze. Katrina took a quick half-step back, hiding behind Darrin's shoulder.

Darrin followed her gaze. When his eyes locked onto Alena, a flash of panic hit his face, instantly replaced by a wall of ice.

He frowned, his jaw ticking as he marched down the steps to block her view of Katrina.

"Three years," Alena choked out, her eyes burning red. "What was all of this, Darrin?"

Darrin leaned in, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. "Don't make a scene here, Alena. Don't embarrass the Payne family."

The coldness in his words froze the blood in her veins.

Katrina lifted her couture gown and hurried down the steps. She reached out, her face twisted in fake sympathy, trying to grab Alena's hand.

Alena felt a surge of nausea. She violently slapped Katrina's hand away.

Katrina gasped. She threw her weight backward and collapsed onto the thick carpet with a dramatic cry.

The entire ballroom went dead silent. Every eye turned to them.

The crowd parted. Darla, Alena's mother, rushed forward. Darla's perfectly contoured face twisted with pure rage when she saw her eldest daughter on the floor.

Darla didn't ask a single question. She didn't even look at Alena's tears.

Darla raised her hand and slapped Alena across the face.

The crack echoed through the room. The force of the blow snapped Alena's head to the side. A sharp, metallic taste flooded her mouth. Blood pooled in the corner of her lips.

Alena pressed her hand to her burning cheek. Her ears were ringing. She stared at the woman who had given birth to her.

"You jealous, spiteful girl," Darla hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Trying to ruin your sister's happiness because you can't handle your own failures."

The words hit Alena right in her chest, crushing her lungs.

She looked at Darrin. He was standing there, watching her with dead eyes. He reached down and gently helped Katrina to her feet, wrapping a protective arm around her waist.

That single movement killed whatever love Alena had left for him.

Alena slowly lowered her hand from her face. She wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her thumb. She looked at the three of them with eyes that felt completely hollow.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry anymore. She let out a dry, hollow laugh.

"A bitch and a dog," Alena said, her voice eerily calm. "You deserve each other."

Darla gasped. The Payne family elders in the front row began to murmur in outrage. Darla shot a look at the security guards.

Two men in suits stepped forward to grab Alena's arms.

Alena violently jerked her shoulders away. "Don't touch me."

She turned her back on them. She kept her spine perfectly straight, walking toward the heavy doors like a soldier leaving a battlefield.

The second she crossed the threshold into the hallway, the cold air conditioning hit her face.

Her strength vanished. Her knees gave out, and she slammed against the wall to keep from falling.

Her stomach violently cramped. She clamped a hand over her mouth and ran to the nearest restroom. She leaned over the porcelain sink, dry heaving until her ribs ached, but nothing came up.

She turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto her face.

She looked at her reflection. Her cheek was a swollen, angry red. Her eyes were dead.

Alena turned away from the mirror. She walked out of the restroom, through the grand lobby, and pushed the glass doors open.

She stepped out into the freezing November rain. The downpour swallowed her instantly.

The freezing rain soaked through Alena's trench coat in seconds. The heavy, wet fabric dragged against her calves as she stumbled blindly across the Manhattan asphalt.

She didn't know where she was going. She just kept walking.

She stepped off the curb at a crosswalk, her eyes blank.

Suddenly, a blinding pair of high beams flashed from her left. The intense light seared her eyes. She threw her arms up over her face.

The violent screech of tires tearing against wet pavement ripped through the air.

A massive, black extended Maybach jerked to a halt. The front bumper stopped less than four inches from her knees. The sharp smell of burnt rubber mixed with the rain.

Alena lost her balance. She fell backward, her palms scraping hard against the rough, wet asphalt. Blood immediately welled up in the scratches.

Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. She gasped for air.

Inside the Maybach, the tinted rear window rolled down exactly halfway.

The interior was dark, but a pair of eyes, sharp and predatory like a hawk's, locked onto her through the heavy rain.

Andrew Spencer sat in the back seat. He looked at the bruised, soaked woman on the ground. The fingers of his right hand, holding a lit cigar, paused in mid-air. A dark, unreadable emotion flashed in his eyes.

The driver panicked. He reached for his door handle, ready to jump out.

"Drive," Andrew commanded. His voice was a low, freezing rumble that instantly stopped the driver's hand. He narrowed his dark eyes, watching her struggle in the rain. "But keep her in sight. Follow her at a distance. Let me know exactly where she ends up."

Alena couldn't see the man in the back seat. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself off the ground. A pedestrian reached out to help her, but she flinched and pulled away.

She limped toward the shadows on the other side of the street.

The Maybach's engine roared. The tires spun, splashing a wave of dirty puddle water over Alena's shins as it drove past her.

Alena kept walking until the towering buildings gave way to the grittier streets of Hell's Kitchen.

She looked up and saw a flickering, blood-red neon sign for a rundown, dimly lit dive bar on the corner. It wasn't the kind of place she would ever usually step foot in, but she needed to hide from the rain and the crushing weight of her reality. She didn't care about the grime or the shadows. She pushed the heavy metal door open and walked inside.

The heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, rattling her teeth. She ignored the bouncer's scanning eyes and walked straight to the darkest corner of the bar.

She sat on a stool and looked at the bartender. "Whiskey. Neat. The strongest you have."

The bartender slid a glass across the wood. Alena threw it back. The liquid burned a fiery trail down her throat, settling hot in her stomach. It briefly numbed the tearing pain in her chest.

She ordered another. Then another.

By the third glass, the alcohol hit her bloodstream. Her vision blurred at the edges. She rested her forehead against the sticky wood of the bar and let out a single, broken whimper.

Three men in cheap leather jackets were standing a few feet away. They watched the beautiful, soaked woman drinking alone. They exchanged a look.

The leader of the group walked over and slid onto the stool right next to her. The overwhelming smell of cheap cologne and stale beer hit Alena's nose.

The man reached out. His rough, dirty fingers stroked her cold cheek.

"Rough night, sweetheart?" he slurred.

Alena's stomach churned violently. She slapped his hand away with a sharp smack. She grabbed her empty whiskey glass and slammed it down on the bar right in front of him.

"Get away from me," she spat.

The glass shattered. Shards flew across the counter. A few people looked over, but this was Hell's Kitchen. No one moved to help a stranger.

The man's face flushed red with anger. He grabbed Alena's wrist, his thick fingers digging into her skin so hard she felt her bones grind together.

His two friends stepped up behind him. Their large bodies formed a solid wall, blocking her from the rest of the room.

Panic spiked in Alena's chest. She thrashed against his grip. She lifted her heel and stomped her stiletto straight down onto the leader's foot.

The man yelled and let go.

Alena shoved him hard in the chest and bolted for the back exit.

The alcohol made her legs heavy. She burst through the metal door into a dark, narrow alleyway. The cold air hit her face, but before she could take three steps, a heavy hand grabbed a fistful of her wet hair.

Pain exploded across her scalp. Her head was yanked backward.

The man cursed at her, his voice bouncing off the brick walls. Pure terror wrapped around Alena's heart like a snake.

He shoved her violently. Her back slammed against the wet, mossy brick wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her. The man pressed his body against hers and grabbed the lapels of her trench coat, trying to rip it open.

Alena's hand dropped to the ground. Her fingers brushed against a loose, heavy brick.

She grabbed it, swung her arm up, and smashed it directly into the side of the man's head.

He screamed. Blood instantly poured down the side of his face, blinding him.

The other two men rushed into the alley. One of them swung his arm and backhanded Alena across the face.

The force threw her to the ground next to a rusted dumpster. Black spots danced across her vision.

The men moved in, raising their boots to kick her.

Suddenly, the heavy, rhythmic sound of expensive leather shoes stepping onto the wet pavement echoed from the mouth of the alley.

The footsteps stopped.

A blinding beam from a tactical flashlight cut through the darkness, hitting the three men straight in the eyes. They threw their hands up, squinting against the glare.

Behind the halo of light stood a towering figure in a tailored black overcoat. The red cherry of a cigar glowed in the dark, pulsing with a terrifying, quiet rage.

Andrew took a slow drag of his cigar. He exhaled the smoke into the freezing rain.

"Let her go," Andrew said. His voice was a low, vibrating threat that seemed to shake the walls of the alley.

The lead thug pressed a hand to his bleeding head. He squinted into the blinding light, his chest puffing up with liquid courage.

"Mind your own business, rich boy!" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to mask his fear.

Andrew didn't blink. He raised his hand and slowly crushed the cherry of his cigar against the wet brick wall. The movement was elegant, but it radiated pure, suffocating violence.

He tilted his head a fraction of an inch.

From the shadows behind him, his executive assistant, Sam, stepped forward. Two massive men in tailored suits flanked him.

Sam didn't wait for an order. He moved with terrifying speed. He grabbed the lead thug's arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved upward.

A loud, sickening pop echoed in the alley as the man's shoulder dislocated.

The thug dropped to his knees, screaming in agony.

The other two men sobered up instantly. They turned to run, but the bodyguards lunged. They grabbed the men by their cheap leather collars and slammed them face-first into the muddy pavement, pinning them down with their knees.

Andrew ignored the groans of pain. He stepped over the puddles, his expensive leather shoes making no sound. He stopped right in front of Alena.

Alena was curled into a tight ball next to the dumpster. She was shivering violently, her clothes soaked with freezing rain and mud. She slowly lifted her head.

Through her blurred vision, her eyes focused on the razor-sharp line of his jaw.

Andrew crouched down. He didn't care that the muddy water was soaking into the knees of his custom trousers. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto her trembling pupils.

He reached up and unbuttoned his black overcoat. He pulled it off his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around Alena's shivering body.

The coat was heavy. It was warm from his body heat and smelled faintly of cedar and expensive tobacco.

The sudden rush of warmth, combined with the heavy crash of the alcohol, made Alena's brain short-circuit. Her survival instincts finally shut down.

She reached out with a freezing, shaking hand and grabbed the cuff of his white dress shirt. Her fingers dug into the fabric.

"Take me away," she whispered. Her voice was so fragile it barely carried over the rain.

Her eyes rolled back, and her body went completely limp.

Andrew caught her before she hit the ground. A dark, dangerous storm brewed in his eyes. He scooped her up into his arms, holding her tight against his chest.

He walked out of the alley. Sam was already standing on the curb, holding a massive black umbrella over the open rear door of the Maybach.

Andrew ducked inside, settling Alena onto the leather seat next to him. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the rain and the city.

The car was warm. Andrew pulled a thick cashmere blanket from the compartment and draped it over her legs.

He sat back and stared at her. Her face was pale, except for the angry red handprint swelling on her cheek. Her breathing was shallow.

He reached out. His long, rough fingers gently brushed against the corner of her mouth, wiping away a fresh drop of blood. His eyes darkened to pitch black.

From the front seat, Sam looked in the rearview mirror. "Hospital, sir?"

"The hotel," Andrew said. His voice was absolute ice.

The Maybach glided smoothly through the streets, pulling into the private underground garage of a hyper-luxury hotel overlooking Central Park.

They took the private VIP elevator straight to the top floor.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse. Andrew carried Alena down a long hallway lined with Persian rugs. He pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner on the master bedroom door.

He walked to the center of the room and gently laid her down on the massive king-size bed. He moved with a careful precision, as if she were made of thin glass.

Alena whimpered in her sleep. Her brow furrowed in distress. Her hands were locked in a death grip on the lapels of his black overcoat. Her knuckles were white.

Andrew reached down, trying to loosen her fingers so he could take the wet coat off her.

The second he pulled on the fabric, Alena thrashed her head side to side, letting out a panicked noise in the back of her throat.

Andrew stopped. He let out a slow breath. He sat on the edge of the mattress and let her hold onto his coat. He sat there in the dark, watching her chest rise and fall, for thirty full minutes.

When her breathing finally deepened into a real sleep, Andrew stood up.

He walked out to the living room and went straight to the wet bar. He poured two fingers of scotch and drank it in one swallow, letting the burn settle the violent rage in his blood.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Sam.

"Break both of their hands," Andrew said to the empty room. "Then throw them out of New York."

He ended the call and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He stared down at the glittering lights of Manhattan, his eyes burning with a possessive, calculated hunger.

Hours passed. The sun began to rise.

A sliver of morning light slipped through the smart blinds and hit the bed. Alena groaned. A massive headache pounded behind her eyes.

She slowly forced her eyelids open.

She stared at a vaulted ceiling she didn't recognize. The room smelled intensely of masculine cedar and clean linen. Her brain completely stalled.

She shot up into a sitting position. She looked down at herself. She was still wearing her dirty dress, wrapped tightly in the black overcoat. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

At that exact moment, the frosted glass door of the master bathroom clicked open.

A cloud of steam rolled into the bedroom. Andrew stepped out. Water dripped from his wet hair down his chest. He was wearing nothing but a white towel slung low on his hips.