My Ex-Husband's Regret: The Billionaire's Return

Anderson's head snapped forward as the taxi hit a pothole.

The motion sent a fresh wave of pain radiating from his temples down to the base of his skull. He pressed his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose, grinding in slow circles. The pressure did nothing. His mouth tasted like stale whiskey and regret.

"Hey, watch it back there," he muttered.

The driver, a heavyset man with a name tag reading Sal, didn't respond. Anderson slumped against the worn leather seat and watched Manhattan blur past the window. Early morning light cut between buildings in sharp, unwelcome angles.

The brakes screamed.

Anderson's forehead cracked against the glass. The sound echoed inside his skull like a gunshot.

"Jesus Christ!" Sal yelled, leaning on the horn. "You see this idiot? Red light means stop, moron!"

A cyclist had shot through the intersection, missing their bumper by inches. Anderson pressed his palm against the window, feeling the vibration of Sal's continued shouting. His headache tripled in intensity.

"Turn off the radio," Anderson said.

Sal's eyes found his in the rearview mirror. The morning talk show host was shrieking about some political scandal, the volume cranked to maximum. Sal's jaw tightened. He reached out and slapped the power button. The silence that followed felt heavy, accusatory.

The meter ticked past forty-seven dollars.

Anderson reached for his wallet. His fingers brushed against empty leather. He checked his other pocket, then the inner compartment. Two twenties. A handful of change. Not enough.

"Come on," Sal said, watching him in the mirror. "Don't tell me you're gonna-"

"I have a card."

"Shoulda said that before. These people, I swear. No cash, no tip, nothing."

Anderson's jaw clenched. He pulled out his credit card and slammed it against the reader mounted on the back of the front seat. The plastic cracked against metal. Sal flinched.

The reader's screen flickered. Processing, it read. Then: Network delay. Please wait.

Anderson stared at the spinning icon. Sal stared at Anderson. The taxi idled at the curb, exhaust seeping through the floor vents. Anderson's chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around his ribs and pulled.

Thirty seconds passed.

The reader beeped. Approved.

Anderson shoved the door open before Sal could speak. The morning sun hit his retinas like a physical blow. He stumbled, throwing up one hand to shield his eyes. Spots danced in his vision.

Someone collided with his shoulder. Hard.

Anderson spun, blinking through the afterimages. A man in a charcoal suit strode past without breaking stride, phone pressed to his ear, briefcase swinging.

"Asshole," Anderson breathed.

He pulled his trench coat tighter. The wool smelled like last night's bar smoke. His apartment building was three blocks north. He counted the steps in his head, focusing on the rhythm of his own footsteps against the sidewalk.

The doorman wasn't at his post. Anderson fumbled in his pocket for his key card. His fingers closed around something sticky.

He pulled his hand out. Black grease