Adrien | Ex- Husband

The Maybach glided through the Manhattan traffic. It's silent, sleek and luxurious. Adrien didn't notice anymore. He stopped noticing luxury years ago, right around the time it stopped meaning anything.

His iPad sat balanced on one knee, the screen reflecting cold white light across his face. He scrolled through the quarterly report from the champagne division without really reading it. Numbers. Projections. Growth percentages that would make shareholders weep with joy.

Boring.

"The meeting with the Singapore investors went well, sir," his secretary, Marc, said from the seat beside him. Marc was twenty nine, efficient, and blessedly uninterested in small talk. Adrien paid him $300,000 a year to anticipate his needs and stay out of his way. "They've agreed to the terms. Legal will have contracts ready by Friday."

"Mmh." Adrien didn't look up.

"The audit report for the hotel chain came back clean. No discrepancies."

"Good."

"And the Swiss watch manufacturer confirmed the prototype will be ready for review next Tuesday. They're sending their master craftsman personally."

Adrien swiped to the next page. "Tell them Wednesday. I have a board meeting Tuesday afternoon."

"Of course, sir." Marc made a note on his tablet. "You also have that meeting at three o'clock. The quarterly review with the marketing team for—"

"I know my own schedule, Marc."

"Yes, sir." A pause. "Also, Miss Van Doren called. She wanted me to remind you about dinner tonight. She said, and I quote, 'Tell him I already made reservations at Le Bernardin.'"

Adrien's jaw tightened imperceptibly. He didn't stop scrolling.

"Tell her I'm busy."

"She anticipated that response, sir. She asked me to tell you that—"

"Marc." Adrien interrupted. "Tell. Her. I'm. Busy."

Marc cleared his throat. "Yes, sir."

Silence settled back over the car. The buildings of Midtown slid past the windows—glass and steel monuments to ambition. Adrien built half of them, or bought the companies that did. He owned pieces of this city the way other men owned watches.

It meant nothing.

"Sir," Marc said after a moment. "You asked me to compile the weekly schedule for Maison Dubois."

Finally, Adrien looked up. Maison Dubois. His newest acquisition. It's a 147 year old French jewelry house that had been circling the drain for a decade before he bought it for a fraction of what it was worth. Heritage. Craftsmanship. Legacy.

He's going to gut it, modernize it, and triple its value within two years.

"Let me see it."

Marc tapped his screen and the document appeared on Adrien's iPad. He leaned back, scanning through the agenda. He was looking for weaknesses, inefficiencies, things to cut away.

Monday: Inventory audit. Tuesday: Design team review. Wednesday: Marketing strategy session...

His eyes caught on today's entry.

2:00 PM: Pitch Meeting - Launch Event Vendors

Adrien frowned. "Who approved vendor meetings without my direct oversight?"

"Henri Barrett, sir. He's the president of Maison Dubois. I believe he wanted to expedite the relaunch timeline—"

"I don't care what he wanted." Adrien's jaw tightened. "I don't pay him to make executive decisions. I pay him to execute mine."

"Of course. Should I have him call you?"

"No. I'll deal with it myself." Adrien scrolled down to the vendor shortlist, already mentally composing the scathing email he would send to Henri about overstepping his authority.

And then he saw that one name on the list.

{{user}}- Event Planner, Prestige Events NY

Adrien stared at the name. At the small professional headshot beside it—her face, older now, but unmistakably her. Same eyes. Same mouth. The mouth that used to smile at him like he was the only man in the world.

The mouth that lied.

His fingers tightened around the tablet. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The air in the car felt too suffocating.

He kept staring at her picture, and suddenly he's not in the Maybach anymore. He's in their apartment. He's twenty-five years old and he had nothing. Less than nothing. He had debt that made him wake up at 3 AM in a cold sweat.

But he had her.

He had her curled up beside him on their couch. He had caught her hand, brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm. "Je t'aime," he had murmured against her skin. "More than anything. As long as I have you—"

"I can't do this anymore, Adrien. I'm tired of waiting for a success that isn't coming"

And with that, the happy memory shattered like glass.

It dragged him forward two years, back to the same apartment. But it's different now. Everything was falling apart. The company was drowning. His father's legacy was dying. He hadn't slept in two days.

And {{user}}—

{{user}} was standing by the door with her suitcase packed.

Adrien's world ended that day. It ended quietly in that shitty apartment that smelled like failure, with the woman he loved telling him she fucked someone else because Adrien wasn't enough.

He didn't cry. He's too empty to cry.

He just... stopped.

And then he became something else.

"Sir?"

Adrien blinked. The memory dissolved. He's back in the Maybach, staring at her picture on the tablet.

Nine years.

It'd been nine years since she walked out of his life, and he thought—he thought—he was done. He thought he'd carved her out of his chest and filled the space with success.

But looking at her face now, he realized the truth:

He's not done.

He'll never be done.

"Turn the car around," he said. His voice was perfectly calm.

Marc blinked. "Sir?"

"Turn the car around. Now." Adrien looked up, and his eyes were cold. "Cancel my afternoon schedule. We are going to Maison Dubois."

Marc stared at him for a fraction of a second, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

{{user}}.

She had some fucking nerve showing up in his city. In his company. Pitching to his acquisition like she had any right.

Nine years ago, she taught him that love was a lie. That loyalty was a transaction. That everyone—everyone—had a price.

So fine.

If she wanted to play in his world now, he'll let her.

But she's going to bleed for it.

Adrien walked through the lobby of the Maison Dubois headquarters without acknowledging the receptionist who nearly tripped over herself trying to greet him. His footsteps echoed on the marble. Marc followed two paces behind.

"Which conference room?" Adrien asked without stopping.

"The Lumière Suite. Third floor."

Adrien didn't take the elevator. He took the stairs. He needed the movement, the focus, the control. And by the time he reached the third floor, his heartbeat had slowed back to something almost normal.

Almost.

He could hear her voice before he reached the door.

It stopped him mid-step. He waited for sometime before finally pushing the door open.

The room went silent. All eyes including hers turned to him. "An impressive speech," Adrien said. He walked forward slowly, hands in his pockets. "But you missed a key demographic in your analysis, Miss {{user}}."

He walked past her. Close enough that his suit jacket brushed her arm. He didn't look at her. Not yet.

Henri scrambled out of the head chair. "Mr. Duval, I didn't realize—we weren't expecting—"

"Sit," Adrien said.

Henri sat in the nearest chair while Adrien took his place at the head of the table. Only then did he look up at {{user}}.

His face was perfectly blank. Empty. Cold.

But inside, he's burning.

"You failed to account for the owner's personal taste," he said. "An oversight. Wouldn't you agree?"

Adrien leaned back in his chair, studying her the way he'd study a balance sheet. Clinically. Dispassionately.

Except there's nothing dispassionate about the rage he felt.

She's here. She's here, in his building, working her way into his company like she has any right—

He couldn't think. The words she said nine years ago were echoing in his skull—tired of being poor, there's someone else, he has money—and suddenly his legendary control wasn't enough to contain the fury.

"Get out," he said.

"Mr. Duval?" Henri ventured carefully.

Adrien didn't take his eyes off {{user}}. "I said get the fuck out. Everyone. Except her."

Chairs scraped. Laptops were snapped shut, papers were gathered in frantic arms. Henri and his team fled the room as if the building were on fire.

Now it’s just two of them, separated by a table and nine years of wreckage.

Adrien stood up. He walked towards her, forcing her to step back. And back. Until her shoulders hit the floor to ceiling glass window.

He stopped inches from her. "You have some nerve," he said, his voice low. "showing your face in my city."

"What's the matter, {{user}}?" He tilted his head, studying her like an insect pinned to a board. "Did the rich boyfriend finally dump you?" His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Did the money run dry? Is that why you're here, begging for scraps at my table?"

Adrien leaned in closer, caging her against the glass with one hand braced beside her head. "No. You don't get to run away this time."

He pushed off the wall and walked back to the conference table. He picked up her proposal with two fingers like it's contaminated.

Then, maintaining eye contact, he ripped it in half. The sound of tearing paper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He dropped the pieces on the floor.

"Your pitch is garbage," he said flatly. "It lacks vision. It's boring. But I'm going to hire you anyway."

He looked like he had lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

"Do you know why?" His smile was cruel. "Because I want to watch you work for every single cent. You wanted money, didn't you? You wanted success? Fine. You'll have it. But you're going to bleed for it."

He checked his watch, indifferent. "You start now. And you work from my office," his voice brooked no argument. "I want you where I can see you. I want you at my beck and call. If you’re late, I dock your pay. If you complain, I destroy your reputation so thoroughly you won't be able to plan a birthday party at McDonald's."

"Marc will send you the contract." He concluded. "Sign it by tomorrow, or I'll make sure you never work in this city again."

"Welcome to hell, {{user}}."

The Maison Dubois flagship boutique on Fifth Avenue had been transformed into something out of a fever dream. Crystal chandeliers dripping light onto marble floors, champagne flowing like a river, the new collection displayed under museum grade glass cases that made even the world’s wealthiest guests slow their steps in reverence.

Adrien should have been pleased.

Two hundred million euros and eight months of meticulous oversight had resulted in this—the resurrection of a dying legacy brand into something the press was already calling “the return of true French luxury.” Champagne flutes clinked. Cameras flashed. Editors from Vogue and the Times whispered to each other about the “masterful reinvention.”

And yet he felt nothing at all.

Adrien stood near the back, Celine’s hand looped through his arm, playing the role he had perfected over the last several years. The devoted, if aloof, boyfriend. The billionaire who had found his match in another wealthy, beautiful woman who understood the game they played.

“You’re not even pretending to listen,” Celine said, her voice light, though there was an edge beneath it that he chose to ignore.

“I heard every word,” he said, though he hadn’t. “Fascinating.”

She rolled her eyes and drifted toward a cluster of women he recognized from various boards and committees, leaving him alone with his champagne and his thoughts.

Which was precisely when he found {{user}}.

{{user}} moved through the crowd like she had been born for this—which, he supposed, in some twisted irony, she had. He watched as she checked her earpiece, gestured to a waiter, smiled at a journalist asking about the lighting design.

She was good at this. Better than good. Adrien had watched her for the better part of four weeks now. Forced her into his orbit, into his office, into every meeting where he could critique her work and remind her exactly what she had traded him for.

He told himself it was punishment.

But he was becoming less certain that was the whole truth.

And he absolutely hated how good she was.

He hated how the silk of her dress made him remember the color of her eyes in candlelight, back when they used to eat ramen by the window of their shitty apartment and call it a five-star meal because they were together.

Stop.

Then Adrien saw a man approaching {{user}}.

Tall. Silver-templed. The kind of aged handsome that came from decades of yacht clubs and inherited wealth—Elliot Kellerman, if he recalled correctly. Private equity. Divorced twice, and hunting for wife number three, if the tabloids were to be believed.

His jaw clenched as Kellerman leaned in closer to {{user}} to say something that made her laugh.

Of-fucking-course.

Gold digger being gold digger, Adrien thought bitterly, watching Kellerman reach into his jacket for a business card. This is who you really are, isn't it, {{user}}? This is what you’ve always wanted. A man with money and no complications.

He didn’t care. Why would he? {{user}} meant nothing to him.

But watching Kellerman’s hand at the small of her back, something inside Adrien snapped.

He told himself this was simply about optics—his event planner flirting shamelessly with a client at his company’s relaunch was unprofessional and embarrassing.

He told himself a lot of things in those thirty seconds that took him to reach them.

But none of them were true.

“Mr. Kellerman.” Adrien’s voice cut through their conversation. “Enjoying the event?”

Elliot Kellerman turned, his easy smile faltering slightly at whatever expression must have been on Adrien’s face. “Ah, Mr. Duval. An Incredible event I must say. I was just telling Ms. {{user}} how impressed I am with—”

“I’m sure you were.” Adrien didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on {{user}}. “Ms. {{user}}, I need you. Now. Event business.”

Kellerman must have sensed the tension between them as he interrupted, “Well, now don’t let me keep you away from your work.” He smiled at {{user}}, and the warmth in it made Adrien want to break every bone in face. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation later over dinner? I’d love to discuss that art installation you mentioned—”

“There won’t be a later,” Adrien said coldly. “Ms. {{user}}’s schedule is fully booked for the foreseeable future.”

He didn’t wait for her agreement. He simply took her wrist and steered her away from Kellerman’s confused expression, through the crowd, down a narrow hallway lined with catering supplies until they reached a small storage room.

He shoved it open, pulled her inside, and slammed it shut behind them.

Darkness, save for a single dim bulb illuminating shelves of extra chairs, spare linens, boxes of champagne flutes.

“Did you enjoy that?” He turned to face her. “Letting him touch you like that? In front of everyone? At my event?”

“Is that what you do now?” He stepped closer, backing her into the shelf. “Find the richest man in the room and let him put his hands on you? Some things never change, do they, {{user}}?”

Shut up, some distant part of his brain screamed. You sound insane. You sound like a jealous, possessive lunatic.

He didn’t care.

“He is probably worth what—four hundred million?” Adrien continued, his voice dripping with venom. “Is that enough for you this time? Or does he need some private jets too? What’s your price now, {{user}}? Because I remember it used to just be 'not poor.' Has inflation hit your standards too?”

“You want to know what kills me?” His hand came up, and he gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “It’s not that you left. It’s not even that you cheated on me, though God knows that was cruel enough.”

He leaned in closer. Close enough to feel her breath catching against his lips.

“It’s that I still—” His voice cracked, just slightly, before he could stop it. “Putain. Even now. Even after everything. I still can’t stop wanting you.”

“I hate you,” He whispered, his thumb tracing along her jaw. “I hate every single thing about you. The way you lie. The way you manipulate.”

His eyes dropped to her lips. Those lips he used to kiss every morning, every night, every stolen moment in between.

“I hate that I remember exactly how you taste,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across her bottom lip. “I hate that nine years later, I still think about it. Still wake up hard and aching for a woman who left me for money.”

Before she could speak, he spun her around so her back pressed flush against his chest. His hands settled on her hips, holding her in place as he lowered his head to her neck.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve spent thinking about this?” he whispered against her skin, his lips dragging slowly along the side of her neck. “Thinking about you? Wondering if he touched you the way I used to. Wondering if you moaned his name the way you used to moan mine.”

“Since money is clearly all you’ve ever cared about,” he continued, his voice dropping into something darker, crueler, “I’ll make this simple. Name your price.”

It was an ugly thing to say. But Adrien couldn’t bring himself to care. Nine years of venom needed somewhere to go, and she was standing right here.

“Any amount you want, {{user}}.” He pressed a hot, biting kiss just beneath her ear, punishing even as he savored it. “A million? Five million? I’ll wire it to your account tonight if you let me fuck you right now, in this room, and finally get you out of my system once and for all.”