Shattered Vows: Ruining My Billionaire Ex-Husband

Fiona was jolted awake by the violent, grinding roar of a garbage truck directly outside her window. The cheap, thin glass of the motel window did absolutely nothing to block the noise. The sound vibrated right through her skull, making her temples throb. She groaned, her stiff muscles protesting as she pushed herself up from the sagging mattress.

She dragged herself into the tiny, mildew-scented bathroom. She turned the plastic knob, splashing freezing tap water onto her face. The icy shock forced her nervous system awake. She gripped the edges of the cracked porcelain sink and stared at her reflection. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes, but the look in her pupils was sharp and unyielding.

She opened her suitcase and pulled out her thin, faded canvas jacket—the same one she had worn when she stepped out of the prison gates. It was still damp from last night’s snow, but it was all she had. She shook it out, slipped her arms into the sleeves, and pulled the collar tight against her neck. She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and pushed the motel door open.

Fiona stepped out onto the bustling Manhattan sidewalk. The bitter winter wind whipped down the concrete canyon, carrying the harsh smell of exhaust fumes and hot asphalt. She shoved her bare hands deep into the pockets of her jacket, hunching her shoulders against the biting cold as she walked purposefully toward the theater district. She needed to find an old contact, someone who might still owe her a favor from her glory days.

As she passed a corner diner near the Screen Actors Guild office, the rich, buttery scent of roasting coffee beans and frying bacon hit her nose. Her stomach violently contracted, letting out a loud, painful rumble. She slowed her pace, her mouth watering, but her fingers brushed against the flat, empty leather of her wallet. She swallowed the hunger and kept walking.

She pulled out her cracked phone, squinting against the harsh glare of the morning sun on the screen. She scrolled through a list of minimum-wage job postings, her eyes straining to read the tiny text while occasionally glancing up at the familiar agency logos on the glass doors around her. She was so focused on the screen that she didn't notice the figure stepping out of a nearby office building.

A man in a tailored suit, his head buried in a stack of manila folders, collided hard with her shoulder. The physical impact knocked Fiona off balance. The large paper cup in his hand crushed inward, sending a wave of scalding hot coffee splashing directly onto the front of her canvas jacket.

Fiona let out a sharp gasp, jumping backward. The heat of the liquid seeped instantly through the thin fabric, burning the skin of her chest. The man dropped his folders, frantically pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket, his voice overlapping in a rush of panicked apologies.

He stepped forward, raising his head to look at her face. The moment his eyes locked onto hers, he froze completely. The handkerchief slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the sidewalk. His jaw dropped.

"Fiona," he breathed out, the sound laced with absolute disbelief.

Fiona blinked, wiping a drop of coffee from her chin. She stared at the man's sharp jawline and familiar wire-rimmed glasses. It was Julian Thorne. Three years ago, he had been the most ruthless, brilliant talent agent in Hollywood—and he had been hers. A massive wave of emotion crashed into her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Julian stepped forward and grabbed both of her shoulders. His grip was tight, desperate. His eyes quickly scanned her pale face, the dark bags under her eyes, and the cheap, stained jacket. His eyes grew red-rimmed.

"Where the hell have you been for the last three years?" he demanded, his voice cracking.

Fiona glanced around. Pedestrians were beginning to stare at the intense reunion. The weight of their curious eyes made her skin prickle. She gave Julian a tight, humorless smile, shook her head, and pointed to the diner she had just walked past. She needed to sit down.

They slid into a narrow, sticky vinyl booth in the back corner of the diner. The cramped space forced them to sit close. Julian immediately flagged down a waitress and ordered a large pot of black coffee. His eyes never left Fiona's face, searching for the vibrant star he used to know.

Fiona wrapped her freezing hands around the thick ceramic mug the waitress dropped off. The heat seeped into her stiff joints. Taking a slow, deep breath, she looked Julian in the eye and told him everything. She told him about the car crash, Kimberly's tears, Cecil's manipulation, and the cold concrete of her prison cell. She spoke in a flat, dead monotone.

Julian's face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He slammed his fist down onto the Formica table with brutal force. The table shook, and hot coffee sloshed over the rims of their mugs, burning his knuckles. He cursed Cecil's name, his voice thick with a violent, protective rage.

He looked down at Fiona's hands wrapped around the mug. They were rough, calloused, and covered in tiny, healing cuts. He remembered how those hands used to hold golden trophies. The tragic waste of her raw, generational talent made a heavy sadness settle in his chest.

Suddenly, Julian reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a sleek, matte-black business card and slid it across the table. He leaned forward, the sadness in his eyes replaced by a sharp, predatory gleam.

"I left the corporate agency. I started my own independent firm," he told her.

He stared at her, his gaze intense and unblinking.

"It is time to come back. I want you to return to Hollywood," he said.

The words hit Fiona like a physical jolt of electricity. Her heart slammed against her ribs, the sudden rush of adrenaline making her dizzy.

Fiona looked down. Her fingers nervously picked at the wet, sticky coffee stain on her jacket. The heavy weight of her criminal record pressed down on her chest.

"No studio will ever insure a convicted felon. I am completely ruined," she laughed bitterly.

Julian leaned further across the table, invading her space. He crossed his arms, slipping effortlessly into his ruthless agent persona.

"Hollywood doesn't care about morals; they care about money. Your scandal gives you an edge, a dark notoriety that the public will eat up," he told her.

He spoke rapidly, his words precise and calculated. He explained that the independent film circuit was currently obsessed with raw, gritty realism. They didn't want polished princesses anymore. They wanted women who looked like they had survived a war. He told her she was exactly what they were looking for.

Fiona's eyes slowly lifted from the table. The image of Dr. Albright's massive medical bills flashed in her mind. The crushing weight of her financial desperation collided with Julian's words, sparking a violent fire in her gut. She had absolutely nothing left to lose.

She straightened her spine, dropping her hands from the coffee stain. The dead look in her eyes vanished, replaced by the sharp, hungry glare of a predator.

"How fast can you get me in a casting room?" she demanded, looking Julian dead in the eye.

Julian's mouth curved into a slow, vicious smile. He reached down into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thin, bound script. He slid it across the table. The thick paper scraped against the Formica.

"It is a psychological thriller, casting for the female lead," he told her.

Fiona reached out and placed her hand flat on the cover of the script. The rough texture of the cardstock sent a thrill straight up her arm. For the first time in three years, she felt the intoxicating rush of having her hands firmly on the steering wheel of her own life.

Julian watched her face carefully. He lowered his voice and added one final detail.

"Kimberly's agency has been aggressively pushing for the exact same role," he said.

The mention of Kimberly's name sent a violent shockwave through Fiona's system.

Fiona's fingers curled inward, gripping the edge of the script so hard her knuckles turned white. The paper crinkled under her brutal grip. A dark, terrifying smile spread across her face.

"I will rip the role right out of Kimberly's manicured hands," she swore, looking at Julian.

Julian laughed, a sharp bark of approval. He stood up, threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table to cover the coffee, and pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet. He held it out to her, offering it as an advance to get her on her feet.

Fiona hesitated, staring at the thick wad of bills. Her pride flared hot in her chest, a reflex from a past life where she relied on no one. "I don't take charity," she started to say, raising her hand to push it away.

Julian shook his head and aggressively pressed the cash into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "This isn't charity. It's a corporate advance for my new star. Consider it an investment, not a handout," he told her, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Fiona looked down at the money. The crushing reality of her empty stomach and Dr. Albright's looming medical bills heavily outweighed her pride. She tightly gripped the cash, nodding once. Julian looked at her, a deep, profound respect shining in his eyes, and put his wallet away.

They walked out of the diner together. As Fiona stepped onto the sidewalk, the thick gray clouds parted. A bright ray of winter sunlight hit her face, warming her skin. She clutched the script to her chest, her blood singing with the promise of war.