Divorced the CEO, Destroyed His Empire

Marian insisted on coming along on this business trip with me and Brent.

I'm a light sleeper. There was no way I could handle the budget hostel the company booked.

So I paid for my own hotel room—a decent one, not cheap.

The moment she saw it, Marian wouldn't let it go. Begged and badgered me to swap rooms with her.

I turned her down politely.

“Sorry, I can't sleep in a hostel, which is the whole reason I booked this room. You're welcome to ask someone else to switch with you.”

The next morning, I woke up to Brent's dark expression.

“Marian slept by the bridge last night. Alone. A few drifters almost got to her.”

I stared at him. “She had a hostel bed. Even if the soundproofing's bad, she could've spent a little money and gotten another room.”

Brent nodded and said nothing more.

That evening at the client dinner, I was pushed drink after drink until I blacked out.

When I opened my eyes the next day, I was locked inside a hostel room with no way out.

Several men closed in around me.

I called out to Brent for help. He stood at the door and sneered.

“Didn't you say hotel rooms are so easy to book? I set up the same arrangement Marian had that night. Now sit tight and stay the whole night.”

The drifters crept closer, leering at me.

I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed my phone. ：“Hello, 911? I'm being held against my will at 303 Chandler Street Hostel. There are multiple men here trying to assault me.”

……

The men burst out laughing.

“Ha! Calling the cops? Go ahead—let's see them come get us!”

“Maybe check whether your call actually went through first. There's been a signal jammer in this room the whole time.”

“Brent Sanchez thought of everything. He knew you'd try to call for help.”

“That phone of yours is a useless brick right now. You can scream yourself hoarse and nobody's coming to save you!”

I froze, then looked down at the screen. The call had never connected.

All the alcohol they'd forced on me the night before still pounded through my skull, my temples throbbing, the room tilting at the edges.

“Brent Sanchez!”

I bit down hard on my lip and looked toward the door.

“I know you're there. Come out!”

“I'm here.”

The door cracked open. Brent stood in the gap, backlit.

I couldn't make out his expression, but I could see the curl of contempt at the corner of his mouth.

“What did you just say? Held against your will? Assault?”

“Georgina Fox, if I remember correctly, you studied law in college.”

“So tell me. Which part of what's happening in this room qualifies as ‘unlawful’?”

The dim light inside blurred the line between day and night.

“Why did you bring me here?”

I stared at him. “I'm your wife. Even if you feel sorry for Marian, you don't have to do this to me.”

I thought back to the dinner table the night before.

Brent hadn't shielded me from the toasts the way he usually did. Instead, he let the clients pour drink after drink down my throat.

Even the glasses meant for Marian.

A few words from him, and those ended up in my stomach too.

Brent scoffed, walked over, and kicked the mattress on the floor.

“What exactly am I doing to you?”

“This is a hostel. It's a normal business. Open to the public.”

“I locked the door, sure. But I'm your husband. What goes on between a husband and wife—you think the cops are going to get involved?”

He walked over to the drifters and clapped one of them on the shoulder.

“These guys? They're guests staying here.”

“They came back to their own room. What evidence do you have that anyone was trying to assault you?”