The Billionaire’s Ex-Wife’s Revenge

The champagne glass slipped from Damian Cross’s fingers, hit the marble floor and shattered.

Every conversation in the ballroom stopped, and Amara Quinn stood at the entrance, one hand resting on the strap of her black handbag. A few drops of rain clung to her mahogany hair, and her black dress was simple, fitted, and far from the expensive gowns surrounding her.

She looked straight at the man standing beneath the crystal chandelier.

Damian.

This made it seven years of marriage, and three years since their divorce. Not once had she seen him look as if the ground had disappeared beneath his feet, until now..

“Amara?”

A woman beside him whispered the name, then the whispers began.

“Is that really her?”

“I thought she left the country.”

“What’s she doing here?”

Amara walked into the ballroom and a waiter stepped aside. Someone pulled a phone from their pocket, and at the far end of the room, a camera flashed.

She didn’t look at any of them.

Damian’s fiancée stood beside him in a silver gown, her diamond ring catching the light. Her blonde hair fell neatly over one shoulder.

Sloane Whitmore.

Amara stopped a few feet from them, a slight curve on her lips.

“Congratulations.”

Sloane’s smile tightened. “Thank you. But I’m afraid this is a private event.”

“I can see that.”

“Then perhaps you should leave.”

Amara’s eyes moved to Damian.

“Is that what you want?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze travelled over her face, then down to the small envelope in her hand.

“What are you doing here?”

“Business.”

A humourless smile touched his mouth.

“At my engagement party?”

“Your invitation was the only way I could guarantee you’d be in the same room as me.”

Sloane looked between them.

“Damian, who is she?”

He finally turned towards his fiancée.

“My ex-wife.”

The whispers grew louder, and Amara slipped the envelope from her handbag.

“Don’t look so surprised, Damian. You knew I’d come back eventually.”

“Not here.”

“Why? Are you worried your guests might hear something?”

His jaw tightened.

“Security.”

Two men in black suits immediately moved away from the wall.

Amara then raised the envelope.

“Before they touch me, you might want to read this.”

Damian didn’t reach for it,

“Whatever you came here to demand, the answer is no.”

“Sixty days.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“That’s how long your company has left on its exclusive AEGIS licence.”

For the first time, the colour shifted in his face, and Amara placed the envelope on a nearby table.

“At the end of those sixty days, your licence expires. And I have no intention of renewing it.”

A man near the champagne fountain lowered his glass, then Damian stepped closer.

“Keep your voice down.”

“Why? You were never worried about my voice when you used it to defend yourself.”

“Amara.”

“An independent investigation into the warehouse disaster. That’s my condition.”

Sloane’s fingers tightened around Damian’s arm.

“What’s she talking about?”

Amara looked at her.

“Eleven people died in that warehouse. One of them was my brother.”

Sloane’s lips parted.

“Damian told me the investigation was closed.”

“It was.”

Amara turned back to him.

“Because you made sure it was.”

Damian’s expression hardened.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“You don’t get to walk in here after three years and make demands.”

“I didn’t come here to make demands. I came to give you notice.”

She tapped the envelope.

“Sixty days. Independent investigators. Full access to the original warehouse records. No company lawyers controlling the investigation, and no settlements to silence the families.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then Cross Meridian loses the system that keeps its operations running.”

His eyes dropped to the envelope.

“You’d destroy everything we built?”

Amara’s fingers curled around the strap of her handbag.

“We?”

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then Damian leaned closer.

“You should think very carefully before you start a fight you can’t finish.”

Amara looked directly into his eyes.

“I spent three years thinking about the last fight you made me lose.”

His face went still, then she stepped back.

“Don’t make me wait for an answer.”

The security guards reached her.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to come with us.”

Amara glanced at the hand one of them had placed near her elbow.

“Take your hand off me.”

The guard hesitated.

“She’s leaving,” Damian said.

Amara looked at him one last time.

“No, Damian. I’m just getting started.”

She turned and walked towards the entrance. Behind her, the ballroom erupted into whispers.

Damian didn’t move until the doors closed behind Amara.

“Who allowed her in?” he snapped.

One of the security guards lowered his head.

“We’re checking, sir.”

“Check faster.”

Sloane studied his face, then her fingers loosened around his arm.

“Damian, what was that about the licence?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

“She just threatened your company in front of half of New York.”

“I said I’ll handle it.”

He reached for a fresh glass of champagne, then his phone vibrated.

It was an Unknown Number.

He glanced at the screen.

“You should see what Noah was doing before he died.”

A photograph appeared beneath the message, and Damian stopped breathing for a moment.

The image showed a younger Noah standing beside a black vehicle outside the Cross Meridian warehouse. His shirt was dirty, and one hand was raised as if shielding his face from the camera.

Victor Hale stood beside him, and Damian enlarged the picture.

The timestamp was visible in the corner.

11:32 P.M, the night of the fire.

His thumb moved across the screen, and he zoomed in on Victor’s face, then Noah’s.

Why had Noah been with Victor that night?

He remembered the emergency reroute, the calls, and the confusion after the fire.

But he had never seen this photograph.

“Damian?”

Sloane’s voice came from beside him.

He locked his phone.

“What?”

“Who sent that?”

“Nobody.”

She stared at the phone in his hand.

“You’re shaking.”

He slipped it into his jacket, and across the ballroom, Victor Hale stood near the tall windows, speaking to two investors.

Damian looked at him, and Victor lifted his glass.

There was a polite smile that crossed his face, then Damian’s phone vibrated again.

A new message.

“Ask Victor what Noah found.”

Damian slowly lowered his glass.

For three years, he had believed Noah died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Now, for the first time, he wondered whether Noah had been looking for something.

And whether Victor had known.