Secrets From My Billionaire Ex

The Man I Never Wanted to See Again Was ACE Mercer. And I Had A Very Big Secret I Was Hiding From Him.!!!

It's been SIX years since I last saw him. And willingly so. I wanted nothing whatsoever at this point to do with him again.

So now I’m working at an upstate nightclub as a waitress. It wasn’t an ideal job and it didn’t have an ideal pay. But I was running away from Zillionaire, I had to be discreet.

I take comfort in knowing I’m rocking the shit out of my sequined corset and my legs look fab in my sky-high heels and stockings.

This is my gig. I am Meryl. I am Julia. I am Sandra. I got this.

I repeat the mantra in my head on a loop until I round the table and take a deep breath to greet my new group of customers.

Then I see him and everything is forgotten.

Everything tonight, at least.

Not the bus ride across town. Not Mrs. Mercer staring with disgust at my bloated midsection, telling me he didn’t want me. Not all my dreams going down the drain.

Not the white-hot burn of rejection.

No, that’s all crystal clear.

But where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing? Poof. All gone.

I grab the tray with my free hand when my shaking causes the drinks to rattle, and I start to back away. I can’t decide on a pace, so it’s an awkward dance of moving too fast and looking like I’m fleeing (accurate) or walking too slow and drawing attention to myself f or looking suspicious (also accurate).

I have tunnel vision on Dane and the velvet rope to freedom when an arm brushes against my shoulder. Every tightened muscle in my body unravels like a jack-in-the-box and I spring forward.

“Shit!” I screech, throwing my hands in the air trying to stop it, but helpless as I watch my tray and all the drinks go flying in the one direction I need them not to go.

The liquid drenches the poor man from his too-long, light brown hair and thick beard covering his strong, square jaw to his chocolate leather loafers as the glass tumblers crash to the floor around him. The dark amber liquid dripping down his perfectly straight nose, despite the fact that he broke it in high school, is a vivid contrast to his ivory skin. All his friends manage to jump up—narrowly avoiding smelling like a distillery for the next year.

“What the fuck?” he roars, rising to his feet faster than someone his size should be able to and attracting the attention of every person on the third floor. Even the DJ scratches the record. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!”

I’m frozen in place. Watching with horror and fascination as he shakes out his arms and legs, drying off with the efficiency of a wet dog. A wet dog with biceps straining against his checkered blazer sleeves and quadriceps about to bust the seams on his tailored-to-perfection pants.

“What was that?” He looks down, clearing the wet hair stuck to his face so he can see the klutzy culprit. And when he does, the change in his demeanor is instant. His green eyes triple in size, his back goes straight, and

the almost man bun is long forgotten. “Sienna?” “Hey, TK.” I wave with both hands.

Then I run.

God.

I hate my job.