My Billionaire Traded Me for His Ex

The man who'd been keeping me for five years just texted me at 2 AM to bring him lingerie.

While it was pouring outside. While his ex-fiancée was probably on her way over.

Come over. Bring the black one.

That's Callum Ashford. Managing partner at Ashford Partners. Old money. Cold eyes. The kind of man who snapped his fingers and expected the world to fall in line.

I grabbed the bag from my closet and headed into the rain.

By the time I got to his Upper East Side apartment, I was soaked through. The door opened. Callum leaned against the frame in a white t-shirt and sweatpants. Behind him, the living room glowed with candles. Champagne chilling in a bucket. Rose petals on the couch.

Not for me.

"Damn." His eyes dragged down my body. "Look at you. Showing up like a wet little stray."

I held up the bag. "You texted."

He took it from me, letting his thumb graze my fingers. "She's running late. Figured you could keep me warm while I wait."

My stomach turned. "If you're expecting someone—"

"Relax." He pulled me inside. "I set up a meeting for you. Some guy named Harrison. Next week. You'll go, right?"

It wasn't a question. With Callum, nothing ever was.

He came back with an old Yale sweatshirt and tugged it over my head. His hands lingered at my waist. "Stay tonight."

"I thought you had company coming."

"Jesus, Wren." He laughed, low and rough. "Five years and you still fall for that? There's no one else. Just you."

Just you. Like that meant something. Like I wasn't standing in his apartment at 2 AM because he snapped his fingers.

He pulled me toward the bedroom. "Put it on. I want to see."

The lingerie was black lace, barely there, the kind of thing I'd never buy for myself. I changed in the bathroom and caught my reflection—a girl from a West Virginia coal town playing dress-up for a man who'd never introduce her to his mother.

When I came out, he was sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes went dark.

"Come here."

I went.

He pulled me onto his lap, ran his fingers along the lace edge at my hip. "This looks better than I thought."

"You picked it."

"I have good taste." His mouth found my neck, my collarbone, the spot behind my ear that always made me weak. I felt his smile against my skin when I shivered.

He pushed me back onto the mattress. The lace dug into my skin as he pressed down on me, but I didn't care. I never cared when he touched me like this—like I was the only thing in the world he wanted.

His hand slid under the fabric. I gasped.

"You like that?"

I couldn't answer. Couldn't think.

He laughed, low and satisfied, and took his time with me. Every touch deliberate. Every kiss slow. Like he was memorizing something he was about to lose.

"This is the last time," he murmured against my jaw.

I pretended I didn't hear.

After, he lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling. I lay beside him, heart still pounding.

"Harrison Whitley," he said. "Trust fund. Old money. He's looking for a girl to keep him company." He blew out smoke. "You'd be good at that."

I didn't answer.

"Sienna's back."

There it was. Sienna Kensington—his ex-fiancée, the one whose picture was still hidden in his wallet. She'd been in London for three years. Now she wasn't.

"I don't want things getting messy," he said. "You understand."

I understood perfectly. He wasn't tired of me. He was scared she'd find out about me.

I got up and pulled on my clothes.

"Guest room's yours," he said without looking at me.

Five years in his guest room because he "slept light." I used to believe that.

I lay in the dark, running my fingers over the small owl tattoo on my ankle. I'd gotten it a year into whatever this was—same design as the one on his wrist. He'd told me it was a rebellious thing from high school, something stupid he did as a kid.

I'd thought it meant something that I had one too.

Morning came too fast. I showered, dressed, and found Callum in the kitchen.

"I'll drive you," he said.

"No." I pulled on my jacket. "The promotion results come out today. If someone sees me getting out of your car, I'm done for."

He paused, coffee cup halfway to his lips. Then he shrugged. "Suit yourself."

My phone buzzed. A text from him—Harrison's number, plus a message: He'll reach out soon. Have fun.

Right. Harrison. That's why I'd agreed to come over last night. To tell Callum I was done. To say I didn't need his charity or his hand-me-down rich boys.

Instead I'd ended up underneath him. Again.

I typed back: I'll go. I won't bother you anymore.

He glanced at his phone, then at me. Didn't say anything.

I went back to the guest room and grabbed my things. Toothbrush. The old t-shirt I slept in. Slippers. I shoved it all into my bag.

Callum watched from the doorway.

"So we're just coworkers now," I said.

He almost smiled. "I won't make your life hard, Wren. Promise."

On the subway, I spotted someone through the crowd. Denim jacket. Broad shoulders. That same messy hair.

My heart stopped.

But when the doors opened, he was gone. I told myself I was seeing things. He had no reason to be in New York. No reason to find me.

At Ashford Partners, my desk mate Jenna was waiting with two coffees and a cupcake with a tiny candle stuck in it.

"Don't say anything." She lit the candle. "Just blow."

"Jenna—"

"You've been gunning for this position for two years. Stayed late, covered shifts, flew to Lagos and nearly died from some parasite." She pushed the cupcake toward me. "You're getting Senior Associate. I can feel it."

I blew out the candle. Made a wish I was too scared to say out loud.

Senior Associate. Real salary. Benefits. Proof that I'd earned my place here—that I wasn't just the girl who slept with the boss.

My phone buzzed. A text from Priya in HR: Results going out in 10.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

My computer pinged. New email. HR department.

I clicked it.

"We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for the Senior Associate position..."