Dumped My Fake-Poor Ex, Married My Wealthy Boss

The Manhattan rain lashed against Kaia's cheap polyester suit.

Kaia pushed through the brass revolving doors of the Apex Club, her wet shoes squeaking against the marble floor.

She slapped the cold water off her sleeves, her fingers numb.

The receptionist behind the mahogany desk maintained a practiced, polite smile. Her gaze, however, performed a calculating sweep of Kaia's soaked, off-the-rack outfit, instantly categorizing her net worth.

"I apologize, madam, but our guest registry does not appear to list your name for this evening," the receptionist said. Her tone was professional, yet laced with an icy distance that made it clear Kaia was entirely unwelcome.

Kaia's lungs tightened. She forced air through her teeth and pulled the Vantage Group access pass from her pocket.

"I have urgent legal documents for a client in the VIP section," Kaia said. Her voice shook slightly from the cold.

The receptionist inspected the pass, her manicured fingernails tapping the desk. She let out a heavy sigh and pointed toward the velvet-lined staircase.

"Third floor. Do not linger."

Kaia clutched the thick manila envelope against her chest.

She walked up the stairs, her cheap heels sinking into the thick wool carpet. The amber lighting of the corridor made her skin crawl.

She did not belong here. The air smelled of expensive cigars and old money.

A waiter carrying a tray of champagne rushed past her. The edge of the tray clipped her shoulder.

A few drops of champagne splashed onto her damp cuff.

Kaia stopped under a brass wall sconce at the corner of the hallway. She pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and scrubbed at the stain.

A burst of laughter echoed down the hall.

The sound sliced through the soft jazz playing from the hidden speakers.

Kaia's hand froze mid-rub. The tissue tore against her sleeve.

Her stomach dropped. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cheeks ice-cold.

That laugh. She had heard that exact laugh every morning for the past six years.

It belonged to Kasen. Her boyfriend. The struggling artist who couldn't afford a subway swipe yesterday.

Kaia's breathing turned shallow. She moved toward the sound, her feet dragging against the heavy carpet.

She stopped outside VIP Box Four. The heavy oak door was cracked open.

Through the narrow gap, a Chesterfield sofa blocked half the room.

Lex Vance, a man Kaia recognized from tabloid magazines, sat on the edge of the sofa. He flipped a gold lighter open and shut.

"How much longer are you going to play house in that leaky Brooklyn dump, Kas?" Lex asked.

Kaia's ribcage contracted. She pressed her hand against the wall to keep her balance.

Kasen leaned back into the frame. He wore a cashmere sweater that cost more than Kaia's annual rent.

He swirled a glass of Macallan whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light.

He let out an arrogant scoff.

"It's a sociological experiment, Lex," Kasen said. His voice was smooth, completely devoid of the exhaustion he faked around her.