Divorcing the Disloyal Billionaire CEO

The system chimed — a clean, bright sound that didn't match anything I felt.

"That's the last one," said Karen, the HR supervisor, pulling the signed clearance form toward her side of the desk. She didn't look up. Her pen scratched a final note in the margin.

I slid my employee badge across the laminate surface. The lanyard coiled behind it like a dead thing.

Karen glanced at the badge, then at me. "You sure about this, Hayley? Mr. Sutton hasn't signed off personally."

"He doesn't need to. The system approved it."

"I know, but—"

"Is there anything else?"

She pressed her lips together. The fluorescent light above us flickered once, casting her face in a brief, sickly yellow. She shook her head.

"Then we're done."

I picked up the cardboard box I'd packed that morning. It was heavier than I expected — four years of a career crammed into twelve inches of space. A ceramic mug. A framed photo I should've thrown out months ago. A dog-eared copy of a project management manual I'd highlighted to death during my first week.

Four years at Sutton Corp. Gone in a chime.

I turned and walked out of the HR office, the box balanced against my hip. The hallway opened into the main floor — rows of glass-walled cubicles, the low hum of keyboards, the smell of burnt coffee from the breakroom.

And voices. Always voices on this floor.

"Did you see the email? Vivien closed the Monarch deal single-handedly."

I kept walking.

"She's unreal. Eric practically handed her the corner office."

My grip tightened on the box.

"Honestly, she's the only reason Q3 didn't tank."

A woman from the analytics team — Priya, I think — caught my eye as I passed. She opened her mouth, then noticed the box. Her gaze dropped. She turned back to her screen without a word.

That was fine. I didn't need a goodbye parade.

Someone near the water cooler laughed. "Vivien Cheney is what happens when talent meets ambition. The rest of us are just filling seats."

I almost stopped. Almost set the box down and told them exactly what Vivien Cheney's "talent" looked like from the inside — the stolen pitch decks, the rewritten credit lines, the way she smiled at Eric while feeding him ideas that had my fingerprints all over them.

But I didn't stop. My shoes kept moving across the polished floor, steady and even.

The elevator bank was empty. I pressed the down arrow and waited. The number above the doors ticked upward — 4, 5, 6 — taking its time, like the building itself wanted one last chance to hold me.

The doors opened. I stepped inside and hit the lobby button.

As the gap between the doors narrowed, I caught a final glimpse of the open floor. Desks, screens, people who hadn't looked up once.

The elevator sank.

Thirty seconds of silence. My reflection stared back at me from the brushed steel doors — dark hair