MY WIFE KILLED ME—THEN I REBORN AS A BILLIONAIRE

Chapter 4: The Bar

The Miami sun was sinking low over the water, turning the sky into streaks of orange and pink. Claire sat under a beach umbrella with her sunglasses pushed up on her head, her phone still in her hand like she was waiting for Ethan to call back and apologize.

Margaret dropped into the lounge chair next to her, still breathing hard from pacing. "I cannot believe that man. After everything I've sacrificed for this family, he talks to me like I'm some kind of stranger off the street."

"Mom, relax. You're going to give yourself a heart attack." Claire turned her phone over in her lap, her voice calm and unbothered.

"Relax? How can you sit there and tell me to relax? He just threatened to throw us out of the house, Claire!" Margaret's neck was flushed red, her fingers gripping the armrest of the chair.

"Because I know Ethan. He does this once every couple of years. He gets frustrated, says something big, and then two days later he's back to normal, carrying groceries and asking if anyone needs anything from the store." Claire waved her hand like she was brushing away a fly.

"You really think he's bluffing?" Margaret's eyes narrowed, searching her daughter's face for any sign of doubt.

"Mom, this is Ethan we're talking about. The man apologized to a waiter once for sending back cold soup. He doesn't have a spine. He'll feel guilty by tonight and call back begging us to forget the whole thing." Claire stretched her legs out on the lounge chair, her toes pointed toward the ocean.

Margaret didn't look fully convinced, but she settled back into her chair and exhaled hard through her nose. "He better. Because if he thinks for one second that I'm going to let some spineless little man kick me out of a house I helped decorate, he's got another thing coming."

Twenty feet away, Lily sat cross legged on a beach towel with her phone propped up against a cooler, watching a video with her earbuds in.

"Lily, did you hear what happened with your father?" Claire called out.

Lily pulled one earbud out and looked over with a blank expression. "Yeah. Are we still staying till Sunday or do we have to go back early? Because I literally just found a really cute beach bar that does mocktails and I wanted to go tonight."

"We're staying. Your father will sort himself out." Claire put her sunglasses back on and lay down flat.

"Cool." Lily put her earbud back in and went back to her video without a single follow up question.

Derek was fifty yards down the beach, standing near the volleyball nets with his shirt off, flexing casually while pretending to watch the game. Two college girls in bikinis walked past and he sucked in his gut and smiled at them. They didn't even glance his way.

None of them were worried. Not really. Because in their minds, Ethan Moore was furniture. He had always been there, quiet and useful, and furniture didn't just get up and walk away.

They were wrong.

Back in New York, the city lights blurred past Ethan's window as he drove through the night. The Audi hummed smooth and low on the highway, and the only sound inside the car was his own breathing.

His mind wouldn't stop. Memories played behind his eyes like a film reel stuck on repeat.

The time Margaret told him he wasn't good enough for Claire at their own wedding reception. The time Derek borrowed $15,000 and never mentioned it again. The time Claire forgot his birthday and then got angry when he brought it up. The time Lily told her teacher that her stepdad was "boring" and Claire laughed about it at dinner.

Ten years. Ten years of smiling through the pain, nodding through the insults, and telling himself it would get better. That if he just worked harder, loved harder, gave more, they would eventually see him. Really see him.

They never did.

This time is different, he thought, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. This time, I see them.

He needed noise. Music. People. Something to drown out the voices in his head before they ate him alive. He spotted a neon sign glowing blue and gold on the corner of West 28th Street. MUSE. A high end lounge bar with tinted windows and a doorman in a black coat.

Ethan pulled over, tossed the keys to the valet, and walked inside.

The interior of MUSE was dark and polished. Black marble floors, leather booths, amber lighting that made everyone look rich whether they were or not. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers, and the air smelled like expensive cologne and red wine.

A waiter in a fitted black shirt approached him near the entrance. The man was maybe twenty five, sharp looking, with the kind of practiced smile that judged you while pretending not to.

"Good evening, sir. Table for one?" The waiter looked Ethan up and down, his gaze lingering on the suit but his expression saying he'd seen plenty of men in nice suits who couldn't afford a second drink.

"Table for one. Something private." Ethan didn't wait for guidance, he just started walking toward the back.

The waiter followed, his polite smile tightening slightly. "Of course, sir. Can I start you with our house cocktail? It's complimentary for first time guests."

"No. I want wine. The most expensive bottle you carry." Ethan slid into a corner booth and leaned back against the leather.

The waiter paused with his notepad half raised. "Sir, our most premium offering is the 1945 Romanee Conti. We have two bottles in our cellar. Each one is $180,000."

"Bring both." Ethan folded his hands on the table, his expression completely flat.

The waiter let out a short breath that was almost a laugh. "Sir, with respect, that's $360,000 for two bottles of wine. I just want to make sure there's no misunderstanding."

"Do I look like I'm confused?" Ethan reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and opened his banking app. He turned the screen toward the waiter.

$16,400,000.

The waiter's smile vanished. His eyes went wide and locked onto the screen like a deer frozen in headlights. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and when he looked back up at Ethan, his entire demeanor had changed.

"Right away, sir. I'll have the sommelier bring them personally. Please allow me to arrange a full premium service for you." The waiter's voice dropped to a near whisper, his head dipping into a small bow before he turned and walked fast toward the back.

Ethan watched him go and almost laughed. Amazing how fast the world changes when you have money. Five minutes ago I was just another lonely man in a bar. Now I'm sir.

Within ten minutes, the booth transformed. Two sommeliers in white gloves carried out the Romanee Conti bottles on a velvet lined tray. Behind them came three hostesses in cocktail dresses, each carrying platters of imported cheese, smoked salmon, dark chocolate truffles, and gold leaf garnished appetizers that probably cost more than most people's car payments.

"Mr. Moore, it's an honor to serve you tonight. Please let us know if there's anything at all you need." The head sommelier poured the first glass with the precision of a surgeon, his hand steady and reverent.

Ethan took the glass and swirled it once. The wine was deep burgundy, almost black at the center, and it smelled like earth and dark berries and something older than memory. He took a sip. It was the single best thing he had ever tasted.

He set the glass down and pulled out his phone. $360,000 transferred. His balance dipped for a moment, and then the familiar buzz came. $3,600,000 incoming. His total sailed past $19 million and kept climbing.

The staff retreated to a respectful distance, all except one.

A hostess with dark wavy hair and soft brown eyes lingered by the edge of his booth. Her name tag read "Shishi," and unlike the others, she wasn't staring at him with dollar signs in her eyes. She looked genuinely curious.

"You don't drink like someone who does this often." Shishi tilted her head slightly, studying his face.

"I don't." Ethan took another sip and set the glass down slowly.

"Then what's the occasion?" She rested one hand on the back of the booth, her posture relaxed and easy.

Ethan looked at her for a long moment, and something in his chest loosened just a fraction. He didn't answer her question. He didn't need to. Instead, he poured a second glass, slid it across the table toward the empty seat across from him, and nodded once.

Shishi smiled, sat down, and for the first time in ten years, Ethan Moore allowed himself to enjoy a night he had never given himself permission to have.