Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 22

Chapter 22 A Cheap Room For Two

Tears stung my eyes. I refused to let them fall. Crying wasted energy. Crying solved nothing, I wiped my face with the sleeve of my

rough wool sweater.

I spent the next three days inside the room. I obeyed the doctor’s orders to the best of my ability. I slept on the bare/mattress, wrapped in my winter coat. I drank tap water from the shared bathroom down the hall. I ate stale bread and peanut butter I bought from the corner bodega using a handful of coins. I forced my body to rest. I forced the internal bleeding to stop.

On the morning of the fourth day, the dull ache in my stomach vanished. The sharp, tearing pain was gone. The immediate threat of

a miscarriage faded into the background.

I stood up. I walked to the tiny ceramic sink in the corner of the room. I splashed freezing water on my face. I looked at the cracked

mirror mounted above the basin.

The cut on my cheekbone had hardened into a dark red line. It marred my pale skin. It looked like a brand. I traced the scab with my fingertip. Celeste Whitmore gave me this mark to prove her dominance. Tristan Johnston let her do it to protect his stock price. I welcomed the scar. It served as a permanent reminder of the price of blind trust.

I grabbed my coat. I needed a job. The rent was paid for two months, but my food supply would run out in four days. I had to buy prenatal vitamins. I had to build a nest for the child growing inside me.

I left the apartment building and walked into the biting coastal wind. I found a public library three blocks away. The heavy stone building offered warmth and free internet access. I walked through the double doors and approached a row of outdated computer

terminals.

I sat in a plastic chair. I moved the mouse to wake the screen and opened the web browser.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I needed to create a new email address. I needed to search for low-level consulting jobs, administrative work, or data entry positions. My degree in corporate strategy felt useless now, but I could leverage my organizational skills to secure an income.

Before I typed my resume, a morbid curiosity gripped my chest. I needed to know the extent of the damage. I opened a search engine. I typed my full name. Minerva Hayes.

I hit enter.

The screen filled with thousands of results. The media storm had not died down.

The Johnston Group public relations machine had worked around the clock while I slept on a floor mattress. The articles no longer framed me as a simple, unhinged stalker obsessed with a billionaire. They painted a far darker, more dangerous picture. They labeled me a spy. They claimed I infiltrated the Johnston Group lower divisions to steal proprietary strategy documents and sell them to rival tech firms.

I stared at the screen. My blood turned to ice.

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Chapter 22 A Cheap Room For Two

Minerva Hayes Fired for Corporate Espionage.

The Mistress Who Tried to Steal Millions.

Tristan Johnston Protects Merger from Fraudulent Consultant.

He did not just fire me. He did not just hide me in the Azure Tower and expect me to stay quiet. When I walked away and rejected his hush money, he realized I was a loose end. He realized I possessed the marriage certificate. He needed to destroy my credibility. If I ever released the truth to the press, no one would believe me. They would see the desperate lies of a convicted fraudster trying

to extort the man who caught her stealing.

He framed me for a felony.

My throat closed. I struggled to draw a breath. This was the man I loved. This was the man who kissed my forehead and told me was the only real thing in his life. He was burying me alive to ensure his wedding to Celeste went off without a hitch.

I clicked on the top article. A statement from the Johnston Group legal team filled the page. They announced an ongoing internal investigation into my actions. They stated they possessed digital evidence of my theft.

The floor beneath my chair seemed to drop away. The thick smell of old books and floor wax in the library turned putrid.

A massive wave of nausea rolled through my body.

I clamped a hand over my mouth. I shoved the plastic chair back. It scraped loud against the linoleum floor. I abandoned the computer terminal. The screen remained lit, broadcasting my ruined name for anyone to see.

I ran down the aisle of bookshelves, my eyes scanning the signs. I spotted the women’s restroom symbol. I pushed through the heavy wooden door and collapsed in front of the first porcelain sink. I gripped the ceramic edges as my body heaved, emptying the meager contents of my stomach into the basin.

I gasped for air. I turned the faucet on and splashed cold water over my face, trying to wash away the sour taste of betrayal.

I looked up at my reflection in the restroom mirror. My skin was chalk-white. Dark circles bruised the skin under my eyes. The red

scar stood out like a beacon.

I was broke. I was pregnant. And the most powerful man in the country had just blacklisted my name across the entire corporate

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