The Ex-Wife's Return: His Child, Her Reckoning

Ivanna Taylor

Four years later

Milo Prince is a world-class idiot. It's not enough that he runs me ragged all day; now he expects me to orchestrate his parties, doing the work of an entire events team, right down to the catering.

All for a damn bonus.

"Ivanna, did you confirm the valet parking? I don't want any bottlenecks when the guests start arriving."

I roll my eyes the moment my back is turned to him. Taking a deep breath, I plaster on my best fake smile before turning around.

"Everything is ready, Mr. Prince. Two attendants have been hired for each wing of the parking area, and they have clear instructions regarding the makes and models expected tonight."

Milo's smile is pure arrogance. I keep my disgust locked away, refusing to let him see how ridiculous I find him. He's my boss, after all.

"That's fine. My guests are high-caliber; they expect nothing less from me.

He turns and lifts the whiskey decanter from his bar. He pours himself a generous glass, the amber liquid well above a standard pour, and takes a long swallow before returning to his nonsense.

"Everything else?"

"In order and on schedule, sir."

He nods again, takes another drink, and his eyes rake over me before his face twists into a grimace.

"I assume you're going to change, right? I pay you a handsome bonus. Surely you can afford a decent wardrobe, yet you insist on wearing those—" He gestures at my clothes with distaste. "—Rags."

I remind myself that huffing in his face would be unprofessional, so I bite my tongue before answering. He knows this is how I always dress. It's not going to change. Aston made that very clear to him.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't like to waste my money, and my attire meets the company's dress code. Tonight, I'll be behind the scenes, managing the staff. There's no need for a flashy outfit when I'll be coordinating platters and giving orders."

Milo narrows his eyes at me. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he lists all the reasons I need to change—starting with the fact that I look awful.

But I already know that. He doesn't need to tell me.

"Can you at least take off those glasses?" he insists. He looks like it physically pains him to even ask.

"If I do that, you lose your assistant, sir." I hide the small smile that tugs at my lips.

I don't actually need glasses; my vision is perfect. I only wear them because Aston Myers himself suggested it. Something about his friend having a particular distaste for baggy clothes and thick-rimmed glasses. And since I have no desire to be on the radar of a man who chases every woman who crosses his path, I've made sure to look as unattractive as possible.

I think I hear him snort, but he turns away before I can confirm it. He takes another drink and adjusts his shirt, preparing to receive his guests.

"Did you call Marissa?"

"Yes, she should be arriving soon," I confirm, swallowing the bile that rises in my throat at having to manage his lovers, too.

But what choice do I have? It's my job.

"Good. You can go down now and make sure everything is perfect. Once about fifty guests have arrived, send me a message so I can make my entrance."

I nod at his order and turn to leave his office. I can't stand him, but I have to endure it. I need this job. I fought too hard for this position to throw it away over something as trivial as hating my boss.

I escape that cramped space and move through his mansion as if it were my own. I know it like the back of my hand. It's not that I've been here long—Milo only moved to Boston a week ago—but he has worked me so hard these past few days that I could walk these halls with my eyes closed.

And even though I complain about the workload, at least it has kept me busy. It's kept me from dwelling on the fact that I'm back in the city that witnessed my downfall, the place where I lost everything.

I shake the unwelcome thoughts from my head and reach the lower floor, my mind buzzing with last-minute orders and checks. Everything is as it should be. At eight o'clock sharp, the guests begin to arrive.

From my command post in the kitchens, I have the entire event under control. There have been no issues at the doors, and none in the parking area. I made sure every detail was covered so I could handle the catering myself. Milo may be a millionaire, but he's a first-rate cheapskate and refused to hire anyone else.

When Marissa arrives, I have to leave my hiding spot to escort her to her millionaire lover. Standing next to her, a wave of inferiority threatens to wash over me, but I remind myself that I don't want to look good. She's stunning in a dress I'm sure Milo will appreciate.

"Good evening, Marissa. Welcome. If you'll come with me, please?"

I'm polite and respectful because it's my job. Even though I have no reason to hate her, the truth is that Marissa is just another woman passing through Milo's life. I can't even say I like her; I'd be lying. Every woman I've met in his circle, without exception, is interested in his money and will do anything for a night of his attention.

"Where is Milo?" she asks, her voice shrill behind me.

"In his office, waiting for you before he makes his appearance."

"Aww, how sweet. You can let a couple of my friends in, can't you? They aren't on the list."

Without looking back, I answer, "I could, but only with Mr. Prince's approval."

"Oh, come on, Ivanna. Milo won't say anything. They're a useful couple to have in your circle. Very influential, among the richest in the city. The only reason they wouldn't have an invitation is if you screwed up."

I almost laugh at her accusation. I don't give a damn what she thinks I did right or wrong.

We move to the elevator that leads to the upper floors, and I press the button, holding the doors open.

"That's a decision for my boss to make, Marissa." I extend my hand, gesturing for her to enter the elevator. "Mr. Prince is waiting for you."

She glares at me, looking like she's holding back a torrent of insults, her face tight with frustration at her inability to order me around. She stalks past me, heels clacking, hips swaying. Once inside, she looks at me with her chin held high, her attitude dripping with arrogance.

"Shane Robinson should have been at the top of that list. And I'll make sure Milo knows it."

Luckily, the doors slide shut, and I'm not left exposed to her while I process the impact of that name.

Hearing it is like a slap in the face, coming out of nowhere.

I knew the risks of coming back to this city, but I told myself Boston was too big, and Milo too conceited to rub elbows with someone who would be his competition. I convinced myself of that, just so I could accept the fact that I had to come here if I wanted to keep my job.

Knowing that Shane could show up here, if Marissa gets her way with Milo, makes a knot tighten in my throat. But I tell myself it's over. It can't possibly hurt more than what he already did to me four years ago.

I walk away from the elevator and return to the kitchens. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. I need a break. I need a drink.

Slowly, I pull myself together. I try to push Marissa's words from my mind, especially the part that delivered news I never asked for.

A useful couple to have in your circle...

I don't know if it's a good idea to dig into that right now. The urge to do a quick Google search is overwhelming, but I fight it down. I can't fall into that trap. I've managed four years with zero contact. I'm not breaking that streak tonight.

I focus on my work, organizing everything from the kitchens. An hour later, I'm sweating from the heat when my phone buzzes. It's Milo.

"Ivanna, I sent someone to the kitchens looking for you. See to her."

I suppress a huff at his order. I'm doing this for a reason, I remind myself. A very important one.

I leave the trays I was organizing and head to the kitchen entrance. The last person on earth I wanted to see tonight stops dead in front of me.

Abigail Allen.

She wears a calm, innocent expression, but the moment her eyes land on me, when she realizes who I am, raw surprise flashes across her features.

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her eyes rake over me, taking in every detail, from my glasses to my cheap, baggy clothes.

A slow, malicious smile spreads across her lips.

I brace myself, fighting the urge to use both my words and my fists on her smug face.

"Who would have guessed you'd be hiding in here, like a sewer rat?" she mocks, crossing her arms and looking down at me with an air of superiority.

"That's for people who have something to hide, sweetheart. And I'm not one of them," I reply, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

She raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Oh, no? Then where have you been? After you ran off like the coward you are, left with nothing—just like you deserved—I didn't think you'd dare show your face around here again. But I see you're still making bad decisions."

I roll my eyes. Of course she'd bring that up—the divorce, Shane demanding I walk away with nothing.

"Some of us value our dignity more, Abigail. Are you the person who was sent to the kitchen? This is a restricted area for staff only..."

When she sees I'm not reacting to her venom, she grimaces, but she presses on, unable to resist a confrontation.

"From the proud wife of millionaire magnate Shane Robinson to... a server? Is that what you are now?" She looks at me with disgust. "You don't even look the part. You just look... pitiful. Why did you come back, Ivanna? Are you planning to crawl back to Shane and humiliate yourself all over again?"

Her words don't surprise me; I expected nothing less from her.

But despite her apparent confidence, I can see the flicker of insecurity in her eyes, the same one that always appeared whenever I was around. And I take advantage of it. He may have cheated on me with her, but I'll be damned if I let her treat me like this without fighting back.

"It's none of your business what I am or what I'm doing here. Crawl back to Shane? Why would I want to do that? You can have him, if you're so worried about guarding him from me."

"Well, you should know we're engaged. It's how it always should have been," she announces, and though a pang of hurt hits my chest, I can't say I'm surprised.

At this point, after four years, the news that my ex-husband is marrying his mistress is hardly a shock.