My Coldhearted Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage

Erika's fingers trembled as she forced the plastic button through the frayed buttonhole of her gray blazer.

The fabric was thin, offering no protection against the biting draft leaking through the cracked window of their Brooklyn apartment.

She stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She looked exactly like what she was: a desperate woman clinging to the edge of survival.

"Mommy."

Erika looked down. Five-year-old Connor stood beside her leg. He reached up on his tiptoes, his small hand holding out a small pink canister of pepper spray.

His dark eyes-eyes that looked entirely too much like the ghosts of her past-were wide with an anxiety no child should carry.

A heavy lump formed in Erika's throat. She swallowed hard, forcing the tightness down, and crouched to his eye level.

She took the pepper spray and shoved it into her worn canvas tote bag.

"Thank you, baby," she whispered, pasting on a smile that made her facial muscles ache. "I won't be long. Lock the door the second I leave, okay?"

Connor nodded solemnly.

Erika pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the scent of cheap baby shampoo. She stood up, her spine snapping straight. She had to do this. She needed the health insurance. She needed the paycheck.

She turned and walked out the rickety wooden door.

The winter wind hit her instantly, slicing through her thin collar. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest as she hurried down the dimly lit hallway, stepping over an empty beer bottle.

Three blocks later, she descended into the subway station. The smell of stale urine and burnt coffee assaulted her senses.

She squeezed into the packed train car. Her hand dove into her tote bag, her fingers wrapping protectively around the velvet jewelry box hidden at the bottom.

As the train rattled toward Manhattan, the worn sneakers and stained work boots around her were slowly replaced by polished leather shoes and designer heels.

Erika instinctively pulled her frayed sleeves down to hide her wrists.

When she stepped out of the station, the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Morgan Group building loomed over her. The sheer scale of it made her lungs tight.

She took a shallow breath, pushed through the revolving doors, and walked across the pristine marble floor toward the reception desk.

Alex, the head receptionist, didn't even look up. He continued typing on his keyboard, his manicured fingers flying.

"Excuse me," Erika said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm the runner from the secretary pool. I have a delivery for Ms. Slattery. My supervisor handed me this directly. Said it was a strict order from the top floor and not to ask questions."

Alex finally raised his eyes. He dragged his gaze up and down her cheap suit, his upper lip curling in undisguised disgust.

He picked up the phone, dialing a penthouse extension. "Yes, the... runner is here," he drawled, making sure Erika heard the mockery in his tone. "Very well."

He hung up and pointed a pen toward the back hallway. "Freight elevator. Don't track dirt on the carpets."

Erika's jaw tightened. She didn't argue. She turned and walked to the service hallway.

The freight elevator smelled strongly of industrial bleach. Erika watched the digital numbers climb higher and higher. Her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. Her grip on the velvet box turned her knuckles stark white.

The doors slid open.

She stepped out into a private foyer lined with French doors. She pressed the brass doorbell.

The door was yanked open. A cloud of heavy, sickeningly sweet floral perfume hit Erika's face.

Taryn Slattery leaned against the doorframe, draped in a custom silk robe that cost more than Erika's rent for a year.

Taryn looked down her nose at Erika. She didn't step aside. She just held out her hand, her long acrylic nails tapping impatiently.

Erika kept her face completely blank. She pulled the velvet box from her bag and placed it in Taryn's palm.

Taryn snatched it. She flipped the lid open.

Her eyes widened as the massive, custom-cut sapphire brooch caught the hallway light.

"Oh, my god," Taryn gasped, her voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Doyle is so predictable. He feels guilty for working late last night."

At the sound of Doyle's name, a sharp, physical pain pierced Erika's chest. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper.

Taryn pinned the brooch to the lapel of her silk robe. She turned slightly, checking her reflection in the mirrored wall, making sure Erika had a front-row seat to her gloating.

"Sign the delivery receipt, please," Erika said, her voice flat and hollow.

Taryn rolled her eyes. She snatched the clipboard from Erika's hand, scribbled her name, and tossed the paper back.

It fluttered to the floor.

Erika didn't flinch. She slowly bent down and picked up the paper, keeping her back perfectly straight.

Taryn sneered, clearly annoyed by Erika's lack of humiliation. "Don't look so miserable. And don't get any ideas. Women like you are invisible to men like Doyle."

"You have nothing to worry about," Erika said coldly. She shoved the paper into her bag and turned toward the elevator.

Taryn scoffed, reaching for the door handle.

But as she looked down at the brooch one last time, her eyes caught the tiny, engraved letters on the back of the silver setting.

Erika pressed the elevator button, desperate to escape the suffocating air.

"Wait."

Taryn's voice cracked like a whip.

Erika stopped. She didn't turn around.

Footsteps clicked rapidly down the hallway. Alex, the receptionist, came jogging out of the private elevator, clutching an iPad to his chest. He was out of breath.

"Ms. Slattery," Alex panted, shoving the screen toward Taryn. "You asked me to dig up the old files on the ex-wife. Look."

Taryn ripped the iPad from his hands.

Erika turned slowly. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of her neck.

Taryn stared at the screen. It was a five-year-old gossip column about the Morgan family scandal, explicitly detailing the disgraced former designer, Erika Stanton, who had married into the dynasty. There was a blurry photo of Erika.

Taryn looked at the screen, then at the engraved 'E.S.' on the back of the brooch, and finally at Erika's face.

The color drained from Taryn's face, instantly replaced by a dark, ugly red.

"You," Taryn breathed, her voice shaking with rage. She hurled the iPad at Erika's feet. The glass screen shattered across the marble floor. "Erika Morgan."

Erika didn't look at the broken glass. She met Taryn's furious gaze head-on. "It's Erika Stanton now. Do you need something else?"

The calm indifference in Erika's voice snapped the last thread of Taryn's sanity. She realized she had just bragged about Doyle's love to the woman who actually designed the jewelry.

Taryn spun around, grabbed a mug of steaming black coffee from the entryway console, and hurled the liquid straight at Erika's face.

Erika's instincts kicked in. She twisted her body violently to the right.

The scalding coffee missed her face but splashed heavily across her left forearm.

The cheap polyester of her sleeve instantly melted against her skin. A searing, blistering agony shot up Erika's arm. She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, her knees buckling for a fraction of a second.

Alex gasped, his hand flying to his mouth, but his eyes danced with cruel amusement.

Taryn stepped forward, her face twisted in hatred. "You cheap, cheating whore. How dare you come here and mock me?"

Erika clutched her burning arm, her breathing shallow.

"You think you're so special?" Taryn shrieked. "You're trash! And that bastard child you birthed is going to end up in the gutter just like you!"

The pain in Erika's arm vanished, replaced by a rush of adrenaline so pure it made her vision blur.

Ice flooded her veins.

Erika lunged forward.

Before Taryn could blink, Erika grabbed the lapel of the expensive silk robe. With one violent yank, she ripped the sapphire brooch free.

The sound of tearing silk echoed loudly in the hallway.

Taryn screamed, stumbling backward, throwing her hands up to protect her face.

Erika stood over her. She squeezed the brooch in her fist. The sharp metal pin sliced into her palm, but she didn't feel it.

"Listen to me very carefully," Erika said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was deadly quiet. "If you ever mention my son again, I will make sure the press finds out exactly how you got your last three movie roles. Do you understand me?"

Taryn's mouth opened and closed. She was trembling, terrified by the absolute murder in Erika's eyes.

Erika looked down at the brooch in her bloody hand. "I designed this. You don't deserve to wear it."

She turned on her heel and slammed her hand against the elevator button.

The doors slid open instantly. Erika stepped inside, her spine rigid.

Taryn finally found her voice as the doors began to close. "I'll have Doyle fire you! You'll be on the streets!"

Erika let a cold, mocking smile touch her lips just as the metal doors sealed shut.

The moment she was alone, her legs gave out. She slid down the wall of the elevator, hitting the floor hard.

She ripped her sleeve up. The skin on her forearm was bright red, and angry blisters were already bubbling to the surface.

She squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the bloody brooch to her chest. She had to get Connor out of this city. She had to survive.

The subway ride back to Brooklyn was a blur of agonizing pain.

Every time the train jolted, the raw skin on Erika's arm screamed. The cold wind outside the station felt like sandpaper against her burns.

She dragged her feet up the three flights of stairs to her apartment. Her hand shook violently as she dug her keys out of her tote bag.

She slid the key into the rusted lock. She noticed faint, fresh scratch marks around the metal cylinder, a sudden cold dread filling her stomach before the door even swung open. It clicked.

Erika pushed the door open, ready to collapse.

But the moment she stepped inside, her lungs froze.

The familiar scent of mold and cheap cleaning supplies was gone. Instead, the heavy, expensive aroma of cedarwood and dark tobacco filled the cramped space.

Erika's eyes darted to the center of the room.

Sitting on her sagging thrift-store sofa was a man in a bespoke charcoal suit. His long legs were stretched out, taking up the entire space.

Doyle Morgan.

Erika's heart stopped beating.

But what made her blood run entirely cold was what he held in his arms.

Connor was fast asleep, his small head resting against Doyle's broad chest.

Panic, raw and blinding, exploded in Erika's brain.

"Put him down!" she screamed, launching herself across the room.

She threw herself at the sofa, her hands clawing at his suit jacket, trying to rip her son away from him.

Doyle didn't flinch. He secured Connor against his chest with his left arm. His right hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around Erika's wrist like a steel vice.

With a sharp pull, he dragged her down, forcing her to crash onto the sofa cushion right beside him. He carefully angled his body so she wouldn't hit the child.

Connor stirred, letting out a soft whimper.

Doyle's chest stopped moving. He held his breath, his large hand instinctively coming up to cup the back of Connor's head, soothing him back to sleep.

The sight of Doyle-the monster who destroyed her life-comforting her son made Erika feel physically sick. She thrashed against his grip.

"Let me go!" she hissed.

Doyle's dark eyes snapped to hers. "Shut up," he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble. "You're going to wake him."

Erika froze, terrified of scaring Connor. She glared at Doyle, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with pure hatred.

Doyle's gaze slowly dropped from her face.

His eyes landed on her left arm.

The blisters were massive now, the skin peeling away in angry red patches.

Doyle's pupils dilated. The temperature in the room plummeted. The grip on her wrist tightened so hard Erika felt her bones grind together.

"Who did this?" Doyle demanded. His voice was deathly quiet, but the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.

Erika let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "Why don't you ask your girlfriend? It was a lovely tip for my delivery service."

Doyle's face turned to stone. A flash of violent, unrestrained fury crossed his eyes.

But just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. He sneered, his lip curling. "Who gave you permission to go to her penthouse? Trying to beg for your old life back?"

Erika's mouth fell open in shock. "HR assigned me the delivery! You think I wanted to see her?"

Doyle leaned in, his face inches from hers. His breath ghosted over her lips. "Nothing happens in my company without my approval, Erika. You went because I allowed it."

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.

He had orchestrated the entire thing. He wanted her humiliated. He wanted her broken.

A wave of pure, unfiltered rage washed over her.

Erika ripped her free hand back and slapped him across the face with everything she had.

The sharp crack echoed in the small room.

Doyle's head snapped to the side.

Before Erika could pull her hand back, Doyle dropped Connor onto the sofa cushions, grabbed both of Erika's wrists, and twisted them behind her back.

He pressed his hard chest against hers, trapping her completely.

He looked down at Connor, who was still sleeping soundly. A dark, ugly jealousy twisted Doyle's features.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear. "Is this what you reduced yourself to? Letting yourself get burned to feed another man's bastard?"

Erika saw red. She opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder, biting down until she tasted his blood.