Escaping My Possessive Billionaire Ex-Husband

time. It was a simple navy sheath, the most expensive thing she'd bought in two y

e slick with

the screen illuminating a t

ianon Suite. Dr. Ian Foster. He's

f money-a faint, clean scent of lemon polish

n Suite. The heavy wood door was slightly

felt like admitting she didn't belong.

y. It swung open with a s

?" she murmured, her v

table. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and expensive

ut the broad silhouette of a man on a sofa, an

aze. A sharp, cold stare that cut throu

caught in

a physical weight, pressing down on

her voice laced with the bored annoyance of th

ut the man's profile-a hard, unforgiving line from temple

amarcus

x-hus

heeks, then receded just as quickly, leaving her skin feeling col

he table. The soft clink of glass against wood

tion remained on his companion,

e a low, smooth rumble that vibrated t

e. And it was the crueles

h she'd given him for his thirtieth birthday. The one she'd saved for a

. She had stumbled, like a beggar, into her billionaire ex-husband's

ils digging into the cheap faux leather. The small

m Damarcus, focusing on Tiff

r own voice sounded foreign, a d

e. She turned and fled, pulli

ned against it, gasping for air. Her heart was a wi

r stomach was wrinkled from her nervous hands. A

she heard Tiffany's l

his expression concerned.

frantic pulse in her throat. She pointed to the door ne

anon Suite is that one." He gestured to

hone. Krissy's text. Vers

n stupidity swept through her. How

image of Damarcus's mocking eyes from her mind. She wal

e stood up from a small table. He wa

asked. "I'm

ce. It felt brittle, like a mas

t you," she lied, st