My Billionaire Ex Forced Me to Marry Him Again

The radiator in our cramped Queens apartment hissed like a cornered snake, drowning out the subtle click of the front door latch. I should have noticed the silence. I should have known that a six-year-old boy is never quiet unless he is plotting something entirely reckless.

But the morning was its usual chaos. Margaret was barking about the weeping kitchen faucet, her arthritic knuckles white as she wrestled mercilessly with a wrench. "Adalyn, this pipe is crying like a widow! Call the super before we float down the avenue," she snapped, her harsh tone masking the fact that she had been up since dawn trying to fix it herself to save us fifty bucks.

Distracted, I was frantically scrubbing a coffee stain from the lapel of my only professional blazer. I thought Sonny was in his bedroom, building a fortress out of pillows.

I didn’t know he had already packed his favorite plastic T-Rex, a crumpled subway map, and the worn, folded letter Zain had left for him under his pillow. I didn't know my brave, fiercely intelligent son was already navigating the concrete labyrinth of Manhattan, marching straight toward a ghost I had spent six years trying to bury.

It wasn’t until three hours later, sitting beneath the soul-sucking fluorescent lights of my real estate firm, that my phone rang.

*NYPD - 17th Precinct.*

My blood turned to ice.

"Ms. Berry?" The desk sergeant’s voice was a bored drawl that starkly contrasted the violent ringing in my ears. "We have your son, Sonny. He’s fine. But he caused a hell of a scene over at Empire Holdings. Sneaked right past their lobby security, made it all the way to the executive elevator banks before they nabbed him. Kept telling the guards he was looking for his father."

*Empire Holdings.*

The name struck me with the force of a physical blow. The air punched out of my lungs. The cheap laminate desk beneath my hands seemed to tilt.

*Griffin.*

I don’t remember the subway ride. I don’t remember the blistering summer heat or the blocks I sprinted, my cheap flats biting into my heels until the skin tore and bled. I only remember bursting through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, my chest heaving, the metallic taste of panic heavy on my tongue.

The station was a chaotic symphony of ringing phones and shouting officers, smelling sharply of ozone, stale coffee, and desperation. But the moment I rounded the corner to the holding area, all the noise in the room vanished into an absolute, suffocating vacuum.

My feet stopped moving. My breath abandoned me.

Standing in the center of the grimy linoleum floor was Griffin Ellis.

Six years had done nothing to soften him. If anything, time had carved him out of harder stone. He wore a charcoal bespoke suit that commanded the dingy room, his broad shoulders impossibly rigid. He was crouching in front of a wooden bench.

Sitting on that bench, swinging his legs and clutching his