My Husband Threw Me Away for His First Love

I stood in the center of the Nichols penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the glittering skyline of the Upper East Side. It was the empire we built together. Or rather, the one I helped him take back.

Kane stood by the massive marble kitchen island. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit. His jaw was set tight. He looked every bit the ruthless billionaire he was now. He didn't look like the broken, penniless outcast I washed shirts for in our cramped Brooklyn studio five years ago.

"I'm marrying Irene," he said.

His voice was flat. It was his boardroom voice. The one he used to fire executives.

Irene Larson. His late cousin Ronan’s widow. The girl who put a Band-Aid on his bleeding knee when they were kids. The childhood obsession he never let go of.

I looked at him. My chest felt hollow, but my breathing stayed even. "When?" I asked quietly.

"The announcement goes out tomorrow." He slid a thick manila folder across the cold marble. "There is a settlement. It's generous. You won't have to work again."

He didn't look me in the eye. He looked at the folder.

I didn't scream. I didn't throw things. Crying was for women who still had a sliver of hope. I walked to the counter. The marble was freezing against my fingertips. I picked up the heavy gold pen lying next to the papers.

"Alyssa," he started. His voice cracked just a fraction. A tiny fracture in his perfect control.

I didn't let him finish. I didn't want to hear his excuses. I flipped straight to the last page. I signed my name. The pen scratched loudly in the dead quiet room. I didn't read the numbers. I didn't want his money.

I pushed the folder back toward him. "Keep it," I said.

I turned and walked down the long hallway to the master bedroom. I pulled my old, battered suitcase from the back of the massive walk-in closet. I packed only what I brought with me five years ago. A few plain sweaters, my old jeans, my paperback books. I left the designer dresses he bought me hanging in their bags. I left the diamond necklaces in their velvet boxes.

When I walked back out, he was still standing by the island. He looked frozen in place.

"Goodbye, Kane," I said.

I didn't wait for an answer. I walked out the heavy oak door and let it click shut behind me.

The private elevator was empty. The walls were lined with polished steel. The doors slid shut, sealing me in. I looked at my reflection. My face was perfectly calm. My posture was straight. But down by my sides, hidden in the deep pockets of my wool coat, my hands were shaking. They trembled so hard my knuckles ached. I shoved them deeper into the fabric and closed my eyes.

An hour later, I was in the West Village. Rosie Jordan’s guest bedroom smelled like lavender and old