Marrying My Ex for Revenge

The last time I saw Adrian Kane, I was in a wedding dress and he was running away from me.

Now he's standing in my office.

"I know I—" He stops. Starts again. "I need your help."

His voice is steady, but I catch the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tap against his charcoal slacks.

I don't look up from the quantum encryption contracts scattered across my desk. The Yamamoto deal alone will net Sinclair Technologies forty million.

It won't leave me at the altar.

"Help." I let the word sit there. "Interesting choice."

"Elena. Please."

The way he says my name—soft, desperate—makes my chest twist. I built walls specifically to keep that tone from reaching me. Spent five years constructing them brick by brick.

But his voice still finds the cracks.

When I finally look at him, my pen stops mid-signature. It's been five years since I saw him and my breath still catches.

He's still devastating—those ice-blue eyes, sharp jawline, broad shoulders in a Tom Ford suit.

But there are shadows under his eyes now. Lines that weren't there before. His hair is shorter, more controlled.

Everything about him screams success, power, money.

Except his eyes.

"You look—" he starts.

"Expensive?" I set down my pen. Slowly. "I am. Eight figures expensive, actually. So unless you're here to acquire my company, I'm not sure we have anything to discuss."

"I want to marry you."

I reach for my coffee. Take a sip. Another. Set the cup down with deliberate care.

Then I laugh.

"I'm sorry," I say, still laughing. "I thought you just said—"

"I did."

"Marry you." I lean back in my chair. "Marry. You."

"Yes."

"The same you who—" I stop. Smile. It doesn't reach my eyes. "Actually, let's not. I have things to do, and I'd hate to waste both our time on memory lane."

"Elena—"

"Your father's dead." I watch his face carefully. "Heart attack. Last week. I sent flowers. Black roses. Did you get them?"

His jaw tightens.

"And let me guess—there's a will. Very specific requirements about your inheritance."

I stand, moving around my desk. Heels clicking against marble. "Something about... oh, what was her name? The girl from Columbia. The one you were supposed to marry five years ago."

I stop in front of him. "Did I get that right? Or is there a different Elena Sinclair you abandoned at St. Patrick's Cathedral?"

"How did you know?"

"Harold called my lawyer two hours ago." I circle him slowly. "Offering condolences. Asking if I'd received any interesting correspondence lately. Very subtle. I can see why your father kept him on retainer all these years."

"I didn't know he was going to—"

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't." I stop. "Tell me, does it feel different? Having him control your life from a grave instead of a corner office? Because from where I'm standing, you look exactly the same. Still doing what daddy says. Still choosing him."

"That's not—"

"Still running."

He flinches. "I deserved that," he whispers.

"You deserve a lot of things. An answer to your proposal isn't one of them."

The memory of our wedding day floods back—me in ivory silk, waiting at the altar while whispers rippled through the cathedral like a virus. The growing realization that something was wrong. That he was late. That he wasn't coming.

"But let's pretend I'm curious," I continue. "What exactly are you proposing? And please, don't insult me with romance."

"Six months. I court you. Publicly. Make it clear to Manhattan that you're doing me the favor." He steps closer, and I catch his cologne—Tom Ford Oud Wood. The same scent that used to cling to my sheets, my skin, my hair. "At the end, you decide. Whatever you want."

"Did you just say 'whatever I want?'"

"Yes."

"And what do you get?"

"My inheritance. My company. Everything my father spent fifty years building."

"So. Money."

"No. A chance—"

"To keep your money." I smile. "Let's be honest about what this is. You need a wife. I'm the only option that satisfies the terms. This isn't about second chances or proving anything. This is about you protecting your assets."

"It's not—"

"It's exactly that." I walk to the window. Manhattan spreads out below us, glittering and sharp. "Five years ago, I would have given anything to hear you say you wanted to marry me. I waited at that altar for forty-five minutes while three hundred people watched me realize I wasn't enough."

"Elena—"

"Now you're here. Asking again. And the only thing that's changed is your father's pulse."

My phone buzzes on the desk. A text from Daniel lights up the screen; Can’t stop thinking about you. Tonight can’t come fast enough.

Heat creeps up my neck.

I don't reply. Just let the message sit there on my desk where Adrian can see it.

"I have conditions," I say, still facing the window.

"Anything."

"Don't agree before you hear them."

"Name them."

I turn around. "I control everything. When, where, what we do. You'll court me publicly. We'll have a formal agreement."

"Yes."

"I'm not finished." I move closer. "I'm seeing someone. A surgeon. Daniel Morrison."

His face flickers with disappointment.

"You'll watch me date him. Watch me smile at his jokes. Let him hold my hand. Kiss him goodnight while you sit and watch us."

His hands ball into fists. "For how long?"

"As long as I decide it takes."

"And then?"

"And then maybe—maybe—I'll consider letting you compete for something you already had and threw away." I tilt my head. "Do we have a problem?"

He sighs. "No."

"Say it clearly."

"No problem."

"Good." I step back. "My lawyer will have papers ready by morning. Sign them. Every page." I smirk. "And Adrian? Don't thank me yet."

For a moment, we just stare at each other. The air between us crackles.

My phone rings. Daniel's face fills the screen. I pick it up without breaking eye contact with Adrian.

"Hey you." My voice goes warm. Soft. "Tonight? I've been thinking about it all day."

I watch Adrian's face.

"Eight is perfect. Can't wait." Pause. Smile. "Me too."

I hang up.

"Dinner plans. Le Bernardin." I pick up my phone, type: Counting down the hours. Send. Set it down where Adrian can see the screen. "Consider that your first lesson," I murmur.

His face has gone blank. But I catch the way his breathing has changed. The way his fingers have stopped tapping and are now pressed flat against his thighs.

"Understood."

He moves toward the door. Stops with his hand on the handle. "Elena?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

I don't look up from my desk. "Don't pretend this is anything but business." I meet his eyes. "You need something. I'm deciding if you'll earn it or not."

He nods slowly. Opens the door. Pauses. "Whatever you decide at the end—"

"I know. Now leave. I have a date to prep for."

The door closes.

I'm alone with the taste of victory and the ghost of his cologne hanging in the air.

I reach for my phone and call Sofia explaining everything to her while I watch Adrian descend in the elevator.

For a while, Sofia was silent.

"Sofia?"

"You're playing with fire, Elena."

"I'm a tech CEO. I know how to handle heat."

"That's not what I mean." Her voice softens. "He's the only man who ever made you cry. And now you've invited him back with instructions to watch you with someone else. That's not revenge, Elena. That's—"

"Justice."

"Gasoline meeting match."

"I can handle Adrian Kane."

"Can you? You just created a situation where you have to feel nothing while he feels everything. And honey, you've never been good at feeling nothing where he's concerned."

"I'm different now."

"Are you? Or are you just better dressed?"

The question lands harder than it should.

"I have to go. I need to get ready for dinner."

"Elena—"

"I'll call you tomorrow."

I hang up before she can say anything else. Before she can point out the obvious flaw in my plan. That revenge only works if you don't still care.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number; I know what I’m asking isn’t fair. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m going to prove I'm not the same man who ran. Even if it kills me. — A.

I stare at the message for a long moment.

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Then I type; It won’t kill you. But it might make you wish it had. Send. Delete the thread. Block the number.

I stand, gathering my things for dinner. Catch my reflection in the window—polished, powerful, untouchable.

And somewhere deep in my chest, behind all the walls and armor and five years of scar tissue, something that should have stayed dead is stirring back to life.

This was supposed to be simple. Make him suffer. Make him pay. Walk away clean.

But as I grab my coat and head for the elevator, I realize the fatal flaw in my perfect plan.

I'm not making him compete for me. I'm making us both compete with ghosts. His father's expectations.

My shattered twenty-two-year-old self, still waiting at that altar.

And the question neither of us can answer: What are we really fighting for—each other, or just the chance to rewrite an ending we both got wrong?