The Contract Ex-Husband of Wealthy Widow

Chapter 8: The Planned Divorce

"Sit down, Raka. Your tenure as Mr. Anya Sterling is officially coming to a close."

Elena didn't look up from the tablet she was tapping. She was dressed in a charcoal-grey power suit that made her look like a high-end assassin. The office was, as always, chilled to the temperature of a meat locker.

Raka sank into the leather chair, feeling the familiar weight of the room pressing against his chest. "Already? The contract said six months. It’s only been four."

"Anya has found a new 'investment' opportunity," Elena said, finally looking up. Her eyes were as cold and clear as frozen lake water. "A younger, more... pliable athlete she met at a charity auction. You’ve served your purpose. The public image of her as a grieving widow has been successfully replaced by that of a woman who tried to find love again but was tragically betrayed."

"Betrayed? By me?"

"Precisely. We’re moving to the exit strategy. You aren't just getting a divorce, Raka. You’re getting a scandal. One that ensures Anya remains the victim and you disappear into the shadows as the villain."

Raka let out a hollow laugh. "Of course. I’m the bad guy. What’s the script?"

"Tonight, at 9:00 PM, you will be at The Gilded Lily. It’s a rooftop lounge in Soho. Very exclusive, very high-visibility. You will be seated at a corner booth with a woman named Saffron. She’s a professional—an actress we use for these specific transitions."

"And let me guess. Anya just happens to walk in with her 'friends' and a few well-placed paparazzi?"

"You’re learning, Raka. How refreshing," Elena leaned back, her fingers interlacing. "Saffron will be aggressive. You will be receptive. When Anya arrives, you will look guilty. You will not apologize. You will act like a man who has been caught and doesn't care. Anya will deliver the performance of a lifetime—the heartbroken wife. She’ll slap you, she’ll leave in tears, and by tomorrow morning, you’ll be the most hated man on Page Six."

"And my payout?"

"The first major installment of five hundred thousand dollars will be wired to your offshore account the moment the divorce papers are signed tomorrow morning. Along with a non-disclosure agreement that carries a ten-million-dollar penalty for even a whisper of the truth."

"Ten million. You really want to make sure I stay dead, don't you?"

"I want to make sure you stay rich and silent," Elena corrected. "Now, go. Saffron is waiting for you at the firm’s penthouse for a... rehearsal. She needs to know your 'tells' so the chemistry looks authentic for the cameras."

***

The penthouse was a glass box overlooking Central Park. It was sterile, expensive, and smelled of lavender. Raka walked in to find a woman in a slip dress that was more of a suggestion than a garment. She was blonde, stunning, and had eyes that looked like they had seen everything twice.

"You must be the husband," Saffron said, sliding off the kitchen island. She held a glass of red wine in one hand and a cigarette—unlit—in the other. "I’m Saffron. I’ve heard you’re a quick study."

"I'm a man who’s tired of acting, Saffron."

"Sweetie, in this town, the only people who aren't acting are the ones in the morgue. Now, come here. We need to figure out how you like to be touched so I don't look like I’m groping a mannequin."

"Is this really necessary for a photo?"

"Elena pays for perfection. If I put my hand on your thigh and you flinch, the 'betrayal' doesn't sell. People need to see the heat. They need to believe you’d throw away a queen for a bit of rough trade like me."

Saffron walked over, her silk dress rustling. She placed a hand on his chest, her fingers tracing the line of his tie. "You’re tense. Relax your shoulders. You’re supposed to be a man who’s enjoying a secret affair, not one waiting for a root canal."

"It’s hard to relax when I know my reputation is being dismantled in four hours."

"Reputation is for people who can't afford to buy a new one," she whispered. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "Elena told me about you. The fallen executive. The 'fallen prince.' You’ve got that brooding energy. Use it. When we’re at the bar, I want you to look at me like I’m the only thing that matters. Like you’re hungry for me."

She pulled back, her eyes searching his. "Do you know how to look hungry, Raka? Or have you been living in Anya’s freezer for too long?"

Raka looked at her, his jaw tightening. "I know how to play the part."

"Then prove it. Kiss me. Right now. Make it look like you’ve been wanting to do it all night."

Raka didn't hesitate. He grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him. He kissed her with a sudden, desperate aggression that made her gasp. It wasn't about Saffron; it was about the frustration, the anger, and the sheer absurdity of his life. He felt her respond, her hands tangling in his hair, her body molding to his.

"Wow," Saffron panted, pulling back after a long moment. She looked a little dazed. "Okay. Yeah. That’ll work. The paparazzi won't even need a zoom lens for that."

"Are we done rehearsing?"

"Not quite," she said, her voice dropping to a low, suggestive purr. She began unzipping the side of her dress. "Elena said I should ensure you’re... fully comfortable with the role. She doesn't want any 'performance anxiety' when the cameras are on us."

"Is this part of the contract too?" Raka asked, his voice raspy.

"Consider it a bonus," Saffron said, the dress sliding to the floor. "And trust me, honey, after four months with Anya, you look like a man who needs a bonus."

She pushed him back toward the oversized leather sofa. The encounter was a blur of high-end silk and raw, transactional heat. Saffron was a professional, her every moan and movement calculated to elicit a response, yet there was a visceral reality to the friction. Raka buried himself in her, using the act to drown out the voice in his head that kept telling him he was losing his soul.

When it was over, Saffron stood up and began dressing as if she were preparing for a business meeting.

"You're good, Raka," she said, checking her reflection in the glass wall. "Better than the last three 'husbands' I’ve had to break up with. Try not to look too guilty when Anya walks in. Just look... satisfied."

***

The Gilded Lily was packed with the beautiful and the damned. Raka sat in the corner booth, the city lights twinkling behind the glass. Saffron was draped over him, her hand resting high on his thigh, her laughter ringing out over the low hum of the jazz band.

"Here she comes," Saffron whispered, her eyes darting toward the entrance. "Three o'clock. She’s with the Millers. Perfect."

Raka didn't look. He leaned in, his nose brushing Saffron’s neck. "Ready?"

"Go."

Saffron pulled his face toward hers and kissed him deeply. At that exact moment, the flash of a hidden camera went off from a nearby table.

"Raka?"

The voice was like a whip. Raka pulled back, looking toward the aisle. Anya stood there, her face a mask of horrified disbelief. Beatrice Miller was beside her, her hand over her mouth in a staged gesture of shock.

"Anya," Raka said, his voice flat, just as they had practiced. He didn't move his hand from Saffron’s waist.

"How... how could you?" Anya’s voice trembled. A single, perfect tear tracked down her cheek. "After everything? After I gave you my life? My heart?"

"Anya, let’s not do this here," Raka said, leaning back with a look of bored indifference.

"You’re disgusting!" Anya shrieked. The entire lounge went silent. Every phone in the room was suddenly pointed at them. "I loved you! And you’re here with... with this?"

She looked at Saffron with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. Saffron just smirked and took a slow sip of her martini.

"We’re done, Raka!" Anya screamed. She stepped forward and delivered a slap that echoed through the room. Raka’s head snapped to the side. His cheek burned, but he didn't flinch.

"I never want to see your face again! My lawyers will be at your door by morning!"

She turned and fled the rooftop, her sobs audible even over the wind. Beatrice Miller gave Raka a look of utter disgust before following her.

The silence lasted for five more seconds before the room erupted into whispers. Raka sat there, the red mark of Anya’s hand glowing on his face.

"That was a ten," Saffron whispered, leaning back into him. "She really sold the slap."

"She’s had practice," Raka muttered. He stood up, adjusting his jacket. "I’m done. I’m going home."

"Don't forget to look ashamed on your way out," Saffron called after him. "The guys by the elevators are with the Daily Mail."

***

Raka sat in the back of a black town car, watching the headlines already popping up on his phone.

*ANYA STERLING BETRAYED: MYSTERY HUSBAND CAUGHT IN SOHO TRYS-T.*

*THE FALL OF RAKA: FROM BANKRUPTCY TO INFIDELITY.*

He felt a strange, cold numbness. He had done it. He had played the villain. He was officially a pariah in the only world that mattered to him.

The car pulled up to the Artemis & Associates building. He took the elevator to the 66th floor. Elena was waiting for him, a bottle of Cristal on ice and two glasses on her desk.

"Congratulations, Raka," she said, pouring a glass. "The metrics are through the roof. Anya’s social media following has doubled in the last hour. She’s the most sympathetic woman in America."

"I'm glad my humiliation is profitable," Raka said, taking the glass and draining it in one go.

"It’s very profitable. Check your phone."

Raka pulled out his personal device. A notification from his banking app showed a pending wire transfer.

**Amount: $500,000.00**

**Status: Confirmed.**

He stared at the zeros. He was a wealthy man again. He could pay off Henderson, buy a new car, and move into a penthouse that didn't smell like failure. But as he looked at the money, he felt absolutely nothing.

"You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, Raka," Elena said, her eyes watching him with that terrifying, analytical stillness.

"I just realized something, Elena."

"And what’s that?"

"That I’m worth more as a lie than I ever was as a man."

Elena walked around the desk. She took the empty glass from his hand and set it down. She stepped into his space, her presence suddenly overwhelming.

"Most people are, Raka. You’ve just finally been paid for it."

She reached out and touched the red mark on his cheek. Her fingers were surprisingly soft. "Does it hurt?"

"Only when I think about it."

"Then don't think," she whispered. She leaned in, her lips brushing the bruised skin. "You’re a free man now. Or as free as a man with a ten-million-dollar NDA can be."

"What happens now?"

"Now, you rest. You move into the apartment we’ve prepared for you on the Upper West Side. You keep a low profile for a few weeks while the scandal cools down."

"And then?"

Elena stepped back, her expression returning to its professional, icy mask. "And then, Raka, we find you a new wife. Madam Bianca has been asking about you. She likes a man with a bit of a 'bad boy' reputation. She thinks she can be the one to 'tame' you."

Raka looked at her, a chill running down his spine. "Another one? Already?"

"The machine never stops, Raka. And you’re the most valuable part we have right now."

Raka walked to the window, looking out at the city he had conquered and lost, and now cheated. He looked at his reflection in the glass. He didn't see the executive anymore. He didn't even see the bankrupt failure.

He saw a ghost. A well-dressed, half-million-dollar ghost.

"I’m ready," he said, his voice sounding like it came from a long way away. "Tell Madam Bianca I’m looking forward to our 'meeting.'"

Elena smiled. It was the first time he’d seen her look truly satisfied. "I knew you were a fast learner, Raka. Welcome to the elite."

Raka didn't answer. He just watched the lights of the city, wondering how many more times he would have to die before he finally felt alive.