The Billionaire's Ex-Wife Is A Queen

Holly lay flat on the messy leather mattress. Her rapid breaths slowly evened out in the freezing air of the bedroom.

Crawford stood by the floor-to-ceiling window. His broad back was turned to her. He fastened the cufflinks of his custom shirt with mechanical precision.

Holly stared at his cold back. The very last trace of hope in the bottom of her chest turned into solid ice.

She threw off the blanket. Her bare feet stepped onto the freezing Italian marble floor. She walked straight to the safe in the corner of the room.

Crawford heard the movement. He frowned, watching her reflection in the glass of the window.

Holly punched in the code. The heavy metal door popped open. She pulled out a thick, brown manila envelope.

Crawford walked over to the wet bar. He poured himself a glass of bourbon. The ice cubes hit the glass with a sharp, clear sound.

Holly turned and walked toward the sofa area. She gripped the envelope so tightly her knuckles turned white.

The dull thud made Crawford pause, the ice cubes in his glass clinking to a sudden halt. He looked down at the bold, unforgiving words printed on the front of the envelope. Divorce Agreement.

The two words hit his brain like a malfunctioning code. For a fraction of a second, a strange, hollow sensation echoed in his chest-a feeling he immediately misidentified as mere annoyance at her insubordination. He refused to entertain the idea that she could actually leave him. His eyes instantly sharpened into a predatory glare. He set the glass down on the marble counter with deliberate slowness. A mocking, icy smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, masking the inexplicable drop in his stomach.

"Is this a new, pathetic extortion game to increase your monthly allowance?" he asked in a chillingly casual tone.

Holly met his oppressive stare. She kept her voice completely steady and told him she wanted nothing. She just needed his signature.

The dead look in her eyes stung Crawford. His pride flared. He leaned in close, using his height to trap her.

He grabbed her chin. He spat out the fact that she had failed to get pregnant in three years. He told her she had no right to make demands.

Holly felt a violent cramp in her stomach at the mention of her infertility. Acid burned her throat. She forced down the nausea and slapped his hand away.

She let out a cold laugh. She told him that since she was a defective product, she was making room for the precious woman in his heart.

Crawford's pupils shrank. The mention of Delphine hit a nerve. The anger of being exposed stripped away his reason.

He yanked a Montblanc pen from his suit pocket. He ripped the envelope open and pulled out the papers.

He did not read a single clause. He flipped to the last page and slashed his arrogant signature across the bottom line. The pen tip nearly tore through the paper.

Crawford threw the pen on the table. He arrogantly announced that this was a highly successful business liquidation.

He grabbed his suit jacket. He slammed the door behind him without looking back. The massive sound echoed in the empty penthouse.

Holly stared at the signature. Her stiff shoulders finally dropped. A single tear hit the wet ink.

She wiped her face quickly. She walked into the walk-in closet and pulled out a black duffel bag she had packed days ago.

She pulled the priceless pigeon-blood ruby ring off her ring finger. She placed it gently next to the divorce papers.

Holly carried the bag out of the apartment. The freezing midnight wind hit her face and cleared her head.

She got into a regular ride-share car. Right in front of the driver, she pulled the SIM card out of her phone and snapped it in half.

The next morning, Crawford walked back into the apartment with a merger file. He called Holly's name out of habit.

Silence answered him. He saw the diamond ring on the table and the empty closet. A rush of blind heat shot straight to his brain. He grabbed the bourbon bottle and smashed it against the wall.

Holly sat at the dusty wooden workbench in her Lower East Side art studio. She carefully trimmed a piece of haute couture fabric with a pair of heavy tailoring scissors.

The cheap backup phone on her desk started vibrating violently. The screen flashed with her adoptive mother Barbra's name.

Holly's stomach tightened. She pressed answer. Barbra's shrill voice immediately blasted through the speaker.

Barbra screamed that the family allowance had not hit her account this month. She accused Holly of pissing off her rich husband.

Holly cut her off with a voice like ice. She stated clearly that she was divorced and there would be no more allowance.

Barbra cursed loudly into the phone. She threatened to come down to the studio and smash her sewing machines.

Holly did not back down. She warned Barbra that if she took one step into the Lower East Side, she would call the cops and file a restraining order.

Holly ended the call. She slammed the phone face down on the desk. Her chest heaved with anger.

A harsh screech of tires echoed from the street outside. A black Maybach parked aggressively in the narrow alley.

Holly walked to the blinds. She peeked through the cracks and saw men in black suits blocking the street.

The car door opened. Crawford stepped out with a dark expression. His expensive custom leather shoes stepped right into a puddle of dirty water.

Holly's heart skipped a beat. She spun around and ran toward the rusted iron door of the studio. She reached for the chain to pull down the rolling gate.

Crawford was faster. A large hand wearing a Patek Philippe watch slammed against the metal gate just as it started to drop.

Metal scraped against metal. Crawford shoved the gate up by force. His massive frame blocked the doorway.

He looked around the rundown room. Disgust flashed in his eyes. He mocked her, asking if this was her idea of independence.

Holly forced herself to stay calm. She took two steps back to create distance. She told him to get out of her private property.

Her tone angered Crawford. He reached back and locked the iron door. He stepped forward, forcing her to back up against the edge of the workbench.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was so tight it felt like he was going to crush her bones. He demanded to know what kind of tantrum she was throwing.

Holly sucked in a sharp breath of pain. She struggled hard, but the difference in physical strength made it impossible to break free.

Crawford used his weight to press her against the workbench. Sketches and fabric scraps spilled onto the floor.

He lowered his head. His hot breath hit the crook of her neck. He tried to use his usual physical dominance to claim ownership.

A wave of intense nausea hit Holly. Her free hand searched the desk and grabbed the heavy tailoring scissors.

Holly did not hesitate for a fraction of a heartbeat. Driven by pure survival instinct, she pressed the sharp metal tip directly against the expensive fabric of Crawford's suit, aiming right over his stomach. Her eyes, usually calm and detached, were now absolutely lethal.

The cold, undeniable danger of the sharp metal pierced through the thin wool fabric, pressing dangerously close to his skin. Crawford froze instantly, his muscles locking up in mid-air.

A jolt of genuine shock short-circuited his anger. In all their years together, she had never raised a finger against him, let alone a weapon. He stared in absolute disbelief at the woman trembling yet standing firm in front of him. Her hair was messy, her chest heaving, and she looked exactly like a defensive, cornered leopard ready to draw blood. This single act of violent rebellion completely shattered her usual submissive, obedient image, leaving him entirely disoriented.

Holly gritted her teeth. She warned him that if he touched her again, she would make him bleed right there.

They stood locked in the dim light. The air was thick with dangerous tension and fatal hostility.

Crawford let out a dark laugh. He slowly released her wrist. He raised his hands in a mocking surrender, but his eyes remained aggressive.

He took a step back. He adjusted his messy tie. He coldly declared that she would be crying and begging him to take her back soon enough.

Right at that moment, the private phone in Crawford's pocket rang loudly, breaking the suffocating standoff.

Crawford pulled out his phone. The screen showed the emergency contact number for the private nurse.

The hostility vanished from his face. He turned his back and answered the call. His voice dropped low, carrying a trace of panic.

Holly's hand holding the scissors shook slightly. She heard him ask about Delphine's vital signs.

His back radiated a kind of tension she had never seen before. A cold, ironic sadness washed over Holly.

He hung up the phone. He turned back to face Holly. The aggressive predator was gone, replaced by a cold corporate negotiator.

He straightened his suit jacket. His voice was stiff as he announced that the divorce hearing had to be postponed.

Holly frowned. She tossed the scissors back onto the desk. She demanded to know why he was breaking the agreement.

Crawford used his father as the excuse. He said Arthur Morris had a heart condition and could not handle the shock of a family scandal right now.

Holly let out a dry laugh. She tore right through his lie. She pointed out that he was just terrified the divorce would crash the Morris Group's stock price this quarter.

The truth hit a nerve. Crawford's eyes darkened. He warned her not to act too smart.

He ordered Holly to attend a major charity gala with him tonight. They needed to maintain the illusion of a loving couple.

Holly crossed her arms. She refused flat out. She told him she was no longer his free PR prop.

Crawford lost his patience. He ripped a blank check from his checkbook and slapped it on the table. He told her to fill in the number.

The act of throwing money at her made Holly's blood boil. But then she remembered the massive final payment due for her studio's fabric order.

Holly changed her mind. She picked up the tablet on her desk and typed rapidly.

She pulled up a basic electronic contract and handed it to Crawford. The title read PR Appearance Service Agreement.

Crawford glanced at the screen. The billing rate was set at ten thousand dollars an hour.

He let out a harsh laugh. He mocked her, saying she finally showed her greedy true colors, just like her trailer park mother.

Holly kept her face blank. She replied that this was the market rate. If he didn't want to pay, he could get out.

Crawford ground his teeth. For the sake of the bigger picture tonight, he snatched the tablet and signed his name aggressively with his finger.

He tossed the tablet back to her. He viciously told her to dress like a proper Mrs. Morris tonight.

Holly checked the screen. The notification for the deposit pinged. A professional, fake smile touched her lips.

She gestured toward the door, kicking him out like a plague.

Crawford got back into the Maybach. He stared through the tinted window at the rusted iron gate rolling down. He yanked his tie loose.

At eight o'clock, a bulletproof SUV parked outside the studio.

Holly walked out. She wore a black, backless evening gown she had designed herself. The cut was sharp and aggressive.

The car window rolled down. Crawford looked at her wild, striking appearance. A flash of shock and deep displeasure crossed his eyes.

He coldly criticized the dress for being too revealing and against the family's conservative standards.

Holly slid into the backseat. She pressed herself against the far door. She coldly reminded him that the contract did not include a dress code.

The car pulled away, heading toward the Hamptons. The air inside the cabin grew heavy with their deliberate distance.