My Coldhearted Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage

Erika's fingers trembled as she forced the plastic button through the frayed buttonhole of her gray blazer.

The fabric was thin, offering no protection against the biting draft leaking through the cracked window of their Brooklyn apartment.

She stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She looked exactly like what she was: a desperate woman clinging to the edge of survival.

"Mommy."

Erika looked down. Five-year-old Connor stood beside her leg. He reached up on his tiptoes, his small hand holding out a small pink canister of pepper spray.

His dark eyes-eyes that looked entirely too much like the ghosts of her past-were wide with an anxiety no child should carry.

A heavy lump formed in Erika's throat. She swallowed hard, forcing the tightness down, and crouched to his eye level.

She took the pepper spray and shoved it into her worn canvas tote bag.

"Thank you, baby," she whispered, pasting on a smile that made her facial muscles ache. "I won't be long. Lock the door the second I leave, okay?"

Connor nodded solemnly.

Erika pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the scent of cheap baby shampoo. She stood up, her spine snapping straight. She had to do this. She needed the health insurance. She needed the paycheck.

She turned and walked out the rickety wooden door.

The winter wind hit her instantly, slicing through her thin collar. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest as she hurried down the dimly lit hallway, stepping over an empty beer bottle.

Three blocks later, she descended into the subway station. The smell of stale urine and burnt coffee assaulted her senses.

She squeezed into the packed train car. Her hand dove into her tote bag, her fingers wrapping protectively around the velvet jewelry box hidden at the bottom.

As the train rattled toward Manhattan, the worn sneakers and stained work boots around her were slowly replaced by polished leather shoes and designer heels.

Erika instinctively pulled her frayed sleeves down to hide her wrists.

When she stepped out of the station, the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Morgan Group building loomed over her. The sheer scale of it made her lungs tight.

She took a shallow breath, pushed through the revolving doors, and walked across the pristine marble floor toward the reception desk.

Alex, the head receptionist, didn't even look up. He continued typing on his keyboard, his manicured fingers flying.

"Excuse me," Erika said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm the runner from the secretary pool. I have a delivery for Ms. Slattery. My supervisor handed me this directly. Said it was a strict order from the top floor and not to ask questions."

Alex finally raised his eyes. He dragged his gaze up and down her cheap suit, his upper lip curling in undisguised disgust.

He picked up the phone, dialing a penthouse extension. "Yes, the... runner is here," he drawled, making sure Erika heard the mockery in