The Billionaire's Scorned Wife

I put Carter’s girlfriend in the hospital. Again.

This time, though, he didn’t do what he always did.

He didn’t fly back overnight to soothe my temper, to broker a fragile peace.

Instead, he called.

“Her birthday is next month. I promised her I’d marry her before she turns thirty.”

A pause hung in the air, thick and heavy with unspoken history.

“It’s been years, Sienna. Haven’t you had your pound of flesh?”

The implication was clear. He wanted me to stop torturing them.

He wanted a divorce.

I looked around our apartment—the one his decorator had called a “masterpiece of minimalist harmony”—now a landscape of shattered glass and overturned furniture. A cold laugh escaped my lips.

“I’d rather burn.”

He wanted it all, didn’t he? The respectable divorce and the devoted mistress. The clean break and the clear conscience.

The world doesn't work that way.

I hung up.

Then I drove to the West Village and personally put a brick through the front window of the new restaurant he’d just bought for her.

1

Six years of marriage to Carter Prescott.

Five years of him keeping another woman.

It’s almost funny, in a tragic sort of way. We were the golden couple, the kind of childhood sweethearts that people write stories about. Everyone assumed we were destined for a perfect life.

But just one year after we stood at the altar, Carter cheated.

And the woman was three years older than him.

When I first heard the rumors, I took two of my more intimidating friends and stormed the little bistro where she worked. We didn’t just make a scene; we orchestrated a symphony of destruction.

Carter arrived to find me standing amidst the wreckage.

He was immaculate in a Tom Ford suit, a stark contrast to the chaos. His first glance wasn’t for Ava, who was sobbing in a corner.

It was for me.

His eyes held a familiar mix of exhaustion and resignation. “Sienna,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t do this.”

I couldn’t understand it. Where had I gone wrong? How could I have lost him to a line cook?

“I had one of my stomach episodes that night,” he explained later, his voice soft, almost pleading. “The pain was… it was tearing me apart. But it was late, you were already asleep. I didn’t want to wake you… She noticed. She just… quietly made me some broth and sat with me for hours until it passed.”

A light flickered in Carter’s eyes then, a warmth I hadn’t seen directed at me in a long, long time.

“In all these years, she was the first person to make me soup when I was sick.”

Carter hadn't had an easy climb. The endless networking dinners and high-pressure deals had chewed through his stomach lining.

But still. It was absurd.

He was captivated by a bowl of soup?

What about the foul-smelling herbal remedies our housekeeper brewed for him every morning, from a recipe I’d spent years tracking down from a specialist in Traditional Chinese Medicine? The regimen he’d been on, without fail, for six years, thanks to me.

Did all of that mean less than a single bowl of chicken broth?

2

By the time Carter got to the restaurant, there was nothing left to break. Shards of porcelain and glass littered the floor like fallen stars.

He froze at the door, his face a mask of disbelief.

Then, with a sharp gesture, he ordered his security detail to handle the guys I’d hired.

He scooped the trembling Ava from a corner, his voice devoid of any emotion as he looked at me. “Sienna, didn’t I tell you there wouldn’t be a next time?”

Of course, he had.

He said it every time I found a new way to torment Ava, every time I created a five-alarm fire that he had to exhaust himself putting out.

I watched them, a cold smile playing on my lips. “You’d better make it stick this time, Carter. Go all out.”

I lifted my chin, gesturing at the ruined restaurant. “Because otherwise, every time you build her a new dollhouse, I’m going to burn it to the ground. And I won’t just stop at the property. I’ll hire a PR firm to plaster her face all over the city. ‘Meet the chef whose specialty isn’t coq au vin, it’s stealing husbands.’”

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “Let’s see who makes a reservation at the homewrecker’s table.”

In his arms, Ava’s small sobs turned into ragged, suppressed whimpers.

“Sienna, that’s enough! Keep your voice down,” Carter snapped, his voice sharp.

“I was the one who pursued her. It has nothing to do with her. If you have a problem, you take it up with me.”

I froze.

I let his words sink in, turning them over and over in my mind. A laugh bubbled up, raw and painful, and soon, tears were streaming down my face along with it.

“Fine,” I choked out. “You and me.”

In the next instant, over Ava’s startled cry, I moved.

My hand swung through the air.

The sharp crack of my palm connecting with his cheek echoed in the ruined space.

His head snapped to the side. He didn’t move, didn’t turn back, as if the force of the blow had short-circuited his brain.

It was true. Since taking the reins of Prescott Holdings, no one had dared to lay a finger on him.

After a long, charged silence, he slowly turned his head back to face me. His face was a thundercloud of fury, the words practically ripped from between his teeth.

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