Chapter 2 A Hug or a Fuck

“You serious?” Portia Pierce asked for the nth time in twenty minutes.

“Yes.”

“You’re really dumping that playboy?”

“I am.”

“Are you still the High C I know—or did aliens possess you?” my best friend yelled down the line. “Whoever you are, get out of High C’s body! By the power of Christ, begone!”

I frowned, lying on the couch in my new apartment, and moved the phone slightly away from my ear. “Have you been watching The Exorcist again?”

“You being able to name my favorite movie proves you’re probably still the original High C.” Portia quickly accepted my decision to divorce and immediately switched gears. “Then we have to celebrate! The Verve, eleven tonight. Put on your sluttiest dress and your tackiest makeup! I won’t leave until I’ve introduced you to the sexiest man in the club tonight!” She hung up before I could refuse.

Which was fine—I wasn’t going to refuse.

Clubs weren’t really my scene anymore, but if I wanted to cut Cary Grant out of my life cleanly, the divorce papers alone weren’t enough. Marrying a billionaire required corporate compliance and board-level approvals, or so Cary’s mother had told me.

She needed time to make sure my exit wouldn’t rattle the family business—and that took thirty days.

Anyway, I’d already got two signed copies of the agreement. For the last thirty days, pretending to be a compliant wife wasn’t that hard.

After I left Cary, I’d need to find a new job. No rush—the settlement would keep me comfortable.

What I worried about most was how to tell my parents I was divorced.

They were conservative. When I told them I’d married suddenly three years ago, they disapproved—convinced I had sold myself to a billionaire to pay for my mother’s illness.

Cary’s attention had eased their worries back then, even if it had all been an act.

No point fretting over things that hadn’t happened yet. For now, I wanted to enjoy a little freedom.

I got up at Portia’s command and smeared on heavy eye makeup, applied lip gloss so loud it practically screamed “come get me,” but I ignored the instruction to wear my sleaziest dress.

Of course I had miniskirts—yes, some of them were short enough to almost show a cheek back when I was younger—and sky-high heels. But I wanted any trust-fund boys I might meet at the club to think I was a woman with curves and brains, not a cheap slut willing to trade a business card for a quickie in a restroom.

When I arrived, Portia nearly stripped me down to lingerie—she wanted me in something that would have suited a charity gala.

I grabbed her. “I want to taste the expensive drinks first, then find a dick to fuck.”

She relented reluctantly, though her eyes promised she’d make sure that happened tonight.

She dragged me up to the mezzanine. The thick walls and soundproofed carpet finally muted the bass so I could hear myself think.

“The handsome crowd won’t show up until midnight,” she said as she settled onto a velvet booth. “That means we’ve got an hour. You can tell me everything, down enough drinks to flush Cary’s toxins out of your system, and then be ready to celebrate with the first man who makes you want to kiss him.”

A handsome waiter holding menus cleared his throat awkwardly, reminding us to order.

Portia winked at him, ordered a French martini for herself, a cosmopolitan for me, and popped a bottle of champagne. When he left, she turned back.

“All right, spill,” she said.

So I did. Portia was the perfect listener—gasping when appropriate, cursing the other woman with no mercy, and saving the fiercest fire for Cary.

“Probably the tits,” she concluded. “Nothing’s wrong with your face—any guy with eyes can see that. So it must be the tits.”

I rolled my eyes. “Are you trying to persuade me to get a boob job?”

“Hey, I own Seraphina Clinic. I’m proud of our world-class results.” She cupped her chest and pushed up, like a TV-shopping demo.

I laughed. “Don’t push too hard—your babies will pop out.”

“That’s a win for you, right? And profit for him.” She flirted with the waiter who’d just brought another round; he blinked back at her.

Afraid Portia might go off and have sex with the waiter right here, I waved him away. Then I heard my name.

Our booth wasn’t fully enclosed; a screen separated us from the next table, so it was easy to overhear.

“Really?” a young man’s voice said—high and floaty, as if drunk or drugged.

“Really. I have a source—on the floor with the boss’s office. He said he saw a woman go into Cary’s office and not come out for half an hour. When Hyacinth went in, the woman was still inside.” Another voice, raspy and smoky, at least in his twenties, added.

Portia glanced at me, eyes sharp. I shrugged.

“Oh my God—office sex. Cary’s a legend!” the conversation continued.

“No surprise. We all know Cary doesn’t respect his—what’s the term—peasant wife. She should accept it quietly. Sure, she lost her dignity, but she got gold, right?”

“Tonight she watched her husband fuck someone live. That’s different,” the drunk one said with schadenfreude. “Bet she’s at home crying buckets. Poor thing—I feel like hugging her.”

The smoky-voiced man sneered. “Hug? Or fuck?”

“Who says I can’t do both?” the drunk grinned. “I’ve got her number. Maybe I’ll call her later. Her ass is the tightest in SoHo—I’ve wanted to fuck her since the first day I saw her.”

I leaned back, found the control panel, and pressed a button. The wall to our right flashed and turned transparent. Drunk Rick Hatchett froze mid-sentence, dumbfounded.

Portia slid me a can of pepper spray.

“No,” I shook my head, hit the call-waiter button, and stood. I walked straight into their booth. Four men stared—fish-eyed, mouths open.

I went up to Rick. “Hi, Rick.”

When we’d first met last year at a charity ball, he’d played the perfect gentleman. Turns out his so-called dancing had been foreplay for groping my “perky ass.”

“Oh—hi, Hyacinth. Didn’t expect to see you here. I hadn’t heard Cary was around.” His smile was brittle; he kept glancing at the transparent wall, probably hoping it would become soundproof.

“Of course he’s not here,” I said, smiling back. “But isn’t that the best part?”

“What?!” Rick gaped.

“I mean—you just said you’ve been dying to fuck my ass.” I repeated his words.

“No, I was joking.” Rick jumped up, flustered. “I can apologize.”

“You serious?” I cocked my head, smiled sweetly. “Since you’re so interested in my ass—why don’t you buy me a drink?”

His eyes widened, but my tone inflated his ego. “Of course. Anything you want,” he said, grinning.

“Perfect.” I reached behind the bar, picked the most expensive whisky on the shelf, and walked toward him with a smile that would make anyone kneel.

“Let me—” he began, trying to be the faux-gentleman.

Without hesitation, I smashed the bottle over his head. Glass shattered; the golden liquid mixed with his blood as it rained down his suit.

Everything happened so fast and so shockingly that everyone watched, stunned.

I was perfectly calm. I turned to the nearest waiter and smiled. “Put this on his tab. He insisted on buying it for me.”

Rick snapped back to himself. “You bitch!” He lunged at me.

I realized there was a window behind me—but before he could reach me, a voice rumbled through the room: “You just called my wife a bitch?”