Sign The Divorce Papers, Mr. Billionaire

The heavy bass from the club downstairs vibrated through the thick Persian rug, traveling up the stiletto heels of Coralie Hyde's shoes and settling deep in her bones.

She walked down the dimly lit VIP hallway of the exclusive Manhattan private club. The air smelled of expensive cigars and spilled secrets.

Coralie rounded a massive marble sculpture. Her eyes locked onto the frosted glass door of Suite 88. It was slightly ajar.

Cale Montgomery leaned against the walnut-paneled wall of the corridor. His broad shoulders relaxed. His tie hung loose around his neck.

Hayleigh Burns stood pressed against him. Her body was poured into a tight red dress. Hayleigh's manicured fingers toyed with the second button of Cale's crisp white shirt.

Cale did not push her away. Instead, he looked down at her with a lazy, indulgent smirk playing on his lips.

Coralie's stomach dropped. A sharp, physical pain radiated from her sternum, making it hard to draw a breath.

Three years of marriage. Three years of telling herself he was just busy, just cold, just reserved. The perfect filter she had placed over her life shattered into jagged pieces right there in the hallway.

She sucked in a sharp breath. The cold air hit the back of her throat. The tightness in her chest hardened into something solid. Ice cold.

Coralie lengthened her stride. She stopped trying to walk softly. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble border of the rug.

Cale's head snapped up at the sound. His dark eyes cut through the dim lighting.

When he recognized his usually compliant, quiet wife, his pupils dilated. A microscopic flinch tightened his jaw.

Hayleigh felt him tense. She frowned, turning her head to glare at the woman interrupting them.

Coralie stopped exactly two feet away from them. She kept her spine perfectly straight. She tilted her chin up.

Hayleigh rolled her eyes. She let out a loud, mocking scoff and pressed her breasts harder against Cale's arm.

A waiter in a black vest hurried down the hallway. He carried a silver tray loaded with freshly poured, ice-cold martinis.

A memory of last week's anniversary, when he hadn't even come home, flashed in her mind. That, combined with the sight of them right now... it was enough. The three years of silent submission finally reached its breaking point. Coralie did not hesitate. She reached out with her left hand-the hand wearing the massive Montgomery diamond ring. She grabbed a full martini glass off the tray.

The waiter gasped, freezing in his tracks.

Coralie flicked her wrist. The movement was smooth, almost practiced.

The freezing alcohol and the green olive flew through the air. The liquid hit Hayleigh squarely in the face.

Hayleigh shrieked. The piercing sound echoed off the walnut walls. She stumbled backward, her high heel twisting. She slammed her shoulder into the wall.

The expensive red silk of her dress instantly darkened, clinging wetly to her skin. Mascara ran down her cheeks in thick, black lines.

Cale's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked near his ear. Shock flashed across his face, quickly followed by the cold fury of a man whose authority had just been publicly challenged. He had never seen Coralie act out of line. Never.

He pushed off the wall, standing at his full, intimidating height. He opened his mouth, his brow furrowed, ready to use that low, commanding tone that usually made her submit.

Coralie didn't give him the chance. She raised her left hand, palm out, silencing him.

She stared directly into his eyes. Her gaze was completely dead.

Cale swallowed hard. The words died in his throat. The sheer coldness in her eyes physically repelled him.

Hayleigh began to sob loudly. She grabbed the sleeve of Cale's suit jacket, trying to hide behind him.

Mr. Foster, the club manager, came sprinting down the hallway. Two large security guards jogged heavily behind him, their radios crackling.

Coralie didn't even glance at Hayleigh. She tossed the empty martini glass back onto the waiter's tray. The glass hit the silver metal with a loud clatter.

She opened her designer clutch. She pulled out a white tissue and meticulously wiped her fingers, as if touching the glass had contaminated her.

Coralie looked at Cale. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

"This fake marriage game is over, Cale."

Coralie turned her head slowly. She shifted her dead gaze from Cale to the panting manager.

Mr. Foster skidded to a halt. His eyes darted from the spilled drink to Hayleigh, then to Cale.

Hayleigh pointed a shaking, wet finger at Coralie.

"Throw this crazy bitch out!" Hayleigh screamed, her voice cracking. "Do you know who he is? Throw her out!"

Cale's face darkened. The shrill noise grated on his nerves. He looked down at Hayleigh's hand gripping his expensive suit jacket.

He ripped his arm away, his lip curling in disgust.

"Get out," Cale said to Hayleigh. His voice was low, but the threat in it was absolute.

Hayleigh froze. Her mouth hung open. The mascara tears dripped off her chin.

Mr. Foster didn't need another warning. He snapped his fingers at the security guards.

The two massive men stepped forward. They grabbed Hayleigh by both arms and dragged her toward the service elevator. Her protests faded down the hall.

The corridor fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the men and the muffled bass from the floor below.

The door to Suite 88 swung open. Arnett Houston stepped out, holding a half-empty glass of amber whiskey.

Arnett took in the puddle on the floor and Coralie standing there. A nasty, mocking smile spread across his face. He let out a low whistle.

"Well, well," Arnett drawled, walking up to stand beside Cale. "Did the boring housewife escape the kitchen to come check up on us?"

Coralie didn't flinch. A harsh, humorless laugh escaped her lips.

She took one step toward Arnett. Her eyes dragged up and down his designer clothes.

"Still playing Cale's little follower, Arnett?" Coralie asked. Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "Does Cale pay you to hold his drinks, or do you just enjoy being his lapdog?"

Arnett's smile vanished. The blood rushed to his face, turning his neck a blotchy red. His knuckles turned white around his whiskey glass.

Cale reached out and shoved his hand against Arnett's chest, stopping him from stepping forward.

Cale glared at Coralie. He slowly twisted the Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist-a telltale sign he was losing his temper.

"Don't push your luck, Coralie," Cale warned, his voice a dangerous rumble.

Coralie met his glare head-on.

"Why?" she challenged. "You get to play around, but I have to sit quietly at home?"

She turned her back on him. She looked at the terrified club manager.

Coralie reached into her clutch. She pulled out a heavy, solid metal Black Card. She slammed it down onto the base of the marble sculpture. The metal clacked loudly against the stone.

"Mr. Foster," Coralie commanded. Her tone was lazy, arrogant. "Bring me your top-tier VIP menu. I want to order."

Mr. Foster wiped the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand.

"O-of course, ma'am. What kind of drink can I get you?"

Coralie wagged her finger at him. A wicked, cruel smile touched her lips.

"I don't want a drink," she said loudly, making sure her voice carried down the hall. "I want the five youngest, most fit male escorts you have on staff. Send them to a private room."

The air in the hallway turned to solid ice. Arnett's jaw practically hit the floor.

Cale's face went rigid. The veins at his temples throbbed visibly. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Mr. Foster looked at the Black Card-Cale's Black Card-and then looked at Cale in absolute terror.

"Coralie Hyde," Cale growled. He ground her maiden name out between his teeth. The rage rolling off him was palpable.

Coralie feigned innocence. She shrugged her shoulders.

"If my husband can order off the menu, so can I," she said.

She tapped her knuckles impatiently against the marble base.

"Hurry up, Mr. Foster."

Cale snapped. He closed the distance between them in two massive strides.

Coralie stood her ground. She kept her chin high, pointing directly at the VIP menu stand.

Cale's large body blocked out the dim light of the hallway. The scent of his cologne and the sharp tang of anger hit Coralie's face.

His large hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her slender wrist like a vice.

Coralie gasped. The physical pain shot up her arm. Her eyebrows pulled together as the bones in her wrist ground against each other.

Cale leaned down. His mouth was inches from her ear.

"Are you done throwing your little tantrum?" he hissed. The heat of his breath made her skin crawl.

She yanked her arm, trying to break his grip. He didn't budge an inch. The difference in their physical strength was suffocating.

Coralie let out a cold laugh.

"I haven't even placed my order yet," she spat back. "How could I be done?"

Something dark and violent flashed in Cale's eyes. His patience evaporated.

He turned sharply on his heel. He didn't let go of her wrist. He started walking toward the private elevator at the end of the hall, dragging her behind him. As he dragged her past the sculpture, his eyes fell on the Black Card. With a furious swipe, he snatched it off the marble and shoved it into his pocket.

Coralie stumbled in her high heels. Her ankles wobbled dangerously. She had to practically jog to keep up with his long, furious strides.

Behind them, Arnett let out another loud whistle.

"Take her home and teach her a lesson, Cale!" Arnett yelled, laughing.

Mr. Foster and the security guards kept their heads down, staring at the carpet, pretending they were invisible.

Cale kicked the button for the private elevator. The doors slid open. He shoved Coralie roughly inside.

The doors closed, sealing them in the small, mirrored box. The silence was deafening, broken only by their harsh breathing.

Coralie leaned against the cold metal wall of the elevator. She rubbed her red, throbbing wrist. She glared at him, her eyes burning with defiance.

Cale ripped his tie completely off. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He paced the small space like a caged predator, his chest heaving.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the freezing, concrete expanse of the underground VIP parking garage.

Cale grabbed her arm again. He hauled her out of the elevator and marched toward his sleek, black Maybach.

The bitter New York winter wind howled through the ventilation shafts. Coralie shivered violently in her thin dress.

Cale unlocked the car with a beep. He pulled open the passenger side door and tried to push her inside.

Coralie found her footing. She swung her heavy designer clutch with all her might. The metal clasp slammed hard into Cale's forearm.

Cale grunted in pain and his grip loosened. Coralie scrambled backward, putting three feet of distance between them.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled. Her voice echoed off the concrete pillars. "Your car is filthy. You are disgusting. I am not getting in there."

Cale froze. He stared at her. The pure, unfiltered disgust contorting her face felt like a physical blow to his chest. He had never seen her look at him like he was garbage.

His shock quickly morphed into a cold, cruel mask. He let out a harsh scoff.

He slammed the passenger door shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"You are nothing without the Montgomery name," Cale sneered. "Walk home, then."

He walked around the hood, got into the driver's seat, and started the engine. The Maybach roared to life.

Cale slammed his foot on the gas. The heavy car shot forward, tires screeching on the concrete, leaving behind a cloud of cold exhaust.

Coralie stood alone in the freezing, empty garage. Her teeth chattered. Her body shook uncontrollably from the cold and the adrenaline.

She didn't shed a single tear.

She reached into her coat pocket with numb fingers. She pulled out her phone, opened a rideshare app, and typed in her destination.

Five minutes later, a standard silver Toyota pulled into the garage. The driver, Manny, stopped right in front of her.