After remarrying, I had an affair.

The door exploded inward. Splintering wood cracked like a gunshot. Damian Blackwood filled the doorway, a volcano on the verge of eruption.


"Is this your idea of revenge?" His voice was low, each word landing like a stone.

His eyes swept the carnage—shattered artwork, overturned furniture. At his feet, the boy knelt, trembling like autumn's last leaf.

This time, I didn't bother with tears or hysterics.


"I was merely curious," I said, my voice flat as still water, "what makes affairs so damn thrilling that you couldn't stop yourself from having them."

His pupils contracted to pinpoints. He barked out a laugh—a smile devoid of humor, all predator, no warmth. "Does seeing me like this satisfy you?"


"Do you hate me?" I asked.

He said nothing.

Of course he hated me. But I was dying, and hatred required energy I no longer possessed.

***

"You're the one who said sex and emotions are separate things." I slipped into my dress with deliberate grace, as though preparing for a charity gala rather than the aftermath of infidelity. "If you can do it, why the hell can't I?"

Three scents hung in the air: the musk of recent sex, my Chanel perfume, and the suffocating stench of Damian's rage.

Blood dripped from his knuckles, each drop blooming into tiny crimson flowers on the cream carpet.

"Get. Out."

He didn't even look at the boy, who scrambled away like a terrified rabbit.

The door clicked shut. Our private battlefield was set.

He stalked toward me, face blank—that emptiness more terrifying than any rage. His fingers clamped around my arm with bone-crushing force.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

He ignored my protest entirely.

He dragged me into the bathroom and hurled me into the massive freestanding tub. With one savage yank, he tore my dress open. Then he grabbed the shower head and cranked the cold water to full blast.

Ice-cold water shocked my system, stealing my breath.

"Lori," he whispered over the rushing water, his voice deceptively gentle, "This is the first—and last—time."

He pinned me down. His hands trembled with barely controlled fury as he scrubbed at the hickeys on my neck like they were radioactive.

This wasn't jealousy. This was humiliation—his humiliation.

"Back off!" I screamed, shoving him with all my strength. I snatched the metal shower head and swung it at his skull.

He didn't even try to dodge.

A sickening thud. Blood instantly poured from his temple, mingling with water, painting a vivid crimson streak down his face. His eyes locked on mine, black as midnight and just as cold.

The feral madness in his eyes sent ice through my veins. I retreated until my spine hit the cold porcelain. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance and wrapped his fingers around my throat.

His kiss was all teeth and punishment.

"You want me to leave? For what—that pretty boy?" He growled against my lips, each word a bullet. "Christ, Lori! I could fucking kill you right now!"

My lip split under his teeth. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth.

Suddenly, a knife seemed to plunge into my gut and twist. White-hot pain. Overwhelming nausea.

"Ugh—" I shoved him back and doubled over the tub's edge, retching violently.

"I disgust you that much?" His voice cracked with disbelief.

I couldn't speak. The invisible knife kept twisting in my gut as spasms of pain wracked my body.

"You've ruined everything, Lori! I already ended things with her!" He roared, his voice bouncing off the marble walls.

"Fine! You want to play games? Let's fucking play!" His voice carried the cold finality of a man with nothing left to lose. "Just don't come crying when you lose."

The door slammed with enough force to rattle the hinges. Then, silence.

Minutes or hours later, I dragged myself from the tub on trembling legs. In the bedroom, a familiar gift bag sat on the sofa.

The one he'd been clutching when he burst in.

I staggered over and opened it. Inside lay a black lacquered wooden box.

A Patek Philippe watch. Limited edition—only three in existence worldwide.

The exact one I'd circled in a magazine fortnight ago.

My memories blur at the edges. After our remarriage, Damian had transformed. He'd canceled his social calendar, devoted all his time to me. Whatever caught my eye would mysteriously appear in our apartment the next day.

He'd given me his time, his fortune, and what he labeled as love.

But I wasn't the woman I once was.

Every glance at his phone made me certain he was texting Sienna Ross. Every time he opened his laptop, I imagined her photos filling his screen.

Sienna Ross. A woman I'd never met face-to-face, yet who haunted my every waking moment.

Between her and my illness, I was losing my grip on sanity.

I'd reached my breaking point.

So I had an affair. I needed to understand what spell those other women had cast that made Damian toss away twenty-one years of us.

I plucked the card from the box.

"Lori, happy seventh anniversary."

The card's edge seemed to slice my heart open, leaving a wound too deep to heal.

Just then, my phone screen illuminated the darkened room.

A friend request. The profile picture showed Sienna Ross.

The message contained just seven words.

"Thank you for giving him back to me."