Frank didn't look at me when he signed the final page.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't hesitate.
He just pressed the pen down like he was signing a food delivery receipt instead of ending a thirteen-year marriage.
Typical.
He slid the document across the table and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his shirt collar like the room belonged to him.
"It's done," he said flatly.
I stared at him, waiting hoping for even a flicker of guilt. Maybe regret. Maybe shame for what he did to me. But Frank's eyes were dead calm. Blank. Detached. As if I were nothing more than an inconvenience he had finally been allowed to dispose of.
And then she walked in.
Vivian.
His "therapist."
The woman who helped him "work through his stress."
The woman whose lip gloss I once found on his pillow.
She strutted into the lawyer's office like she owned the place, her red dress hugging every curve, her heels clicking against the floor like punctuation marks to her confidence.
"Baby," she said to Frank, placing a hand on his shoulder like she'd won a prize.
I raised an eyebrow. "Really? Couldn't you wait five minutes before parading her in here?"
Vivian's smirk was small but sharp. "We thought transparency was best."
Transparency.
That was rich.
Frank stood, clasping her hand like he was some loyal husband instead of a serial liar.
"You got what you wanted," he told me. "Your freedom."
I laughed. "Freedom? Frank, I didn't get freedom today. I got rid of a parasite."
His jaw ticked. Vivian tightened her grip on his arm. And I, for the first time in months, felt something like power.
I took my copy of the divorce papers, rolled them in my hand, and stepped past them as I said, "You two deserve each other. You really do."
I didn't look back when I walked out of the building.
I didn't want to see the disgustingly comfortable way she leaned into him.
I didn't want to hear the lies he whispered into her ear.
I didn't want to remember that I used to believe them too.
No.
I wanted something else.
I wanted to feel alive.
My heels clicked hard against the pavement as I walked toward the first bar I saw. I didn't care what it looked like. I didn't care who was inside. All I knew was that I wanted a drink strong enough to burn away my memories and a man bold enough to replace every touch Frank had stolen from me.
I pushed through the door and walked straight to the counter.
"Whiskey," I told the bartender. "Double."
He blinked at me, probably caught off guard by the fury simmering in my chest. "Rough day?"
"The roughest," I muttered.
The whiskey hit my tongue like fire. I swallowed and felt the heat settle low in my stomach. My pulse steadied. My mind sharpened. My anger morphed into something dangerously determined.
Tonight wasn't about heartbreak.
Tonight wasn't about crying or mourning or feeling sorry for myself.
No, tonight was about revenge.
Not the petty kind with screaming or threats.
The quiet kind.
The sensual kind.
The kind where I took back every piece of confidence Frank tried to strip away.
I scanned the room.
Men were everywhere laughing, drinking, leaning over tables, flirting with anything in a skirt. But none of them caught my attention.
Too loud.
Too sloppy.
Too drunk.
Too boring.
Then I saw him.
Sitting in the far corner. Alone.
Dark hair. Strong jaw. A body built like a sin waiting to happen.
He wasn't laughing.
He wasn't talking.
He wasn't trying to impress anyone.
He was simply… there.
Calm.
Composed.
Effortlessly attractive.
And something inside me said, That one.
I straightened my dress, grabbed my drink, and walked toward him with my chin lifted like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.
He looked up the moment I reached his table. His eyes were warm, curious eyes that didn't undress me immediately but took me in slowly, thoughtfully.
"Hi," he said, his voice a low, velvety sound that almost made me shiver.
I didn't waste time.
I leaned in, placed a hand on the edge of the table, and whispered, "I'm not here for conversation."
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "No?"
"No."
I moved closer.
"Stand up."
He did.
And I pressed my lips to his.
The kiss wasn't soft.
It wasn't cautious.
It was desperate. Raw. Fierce.
It tasted like the whiskey still burning on my tongue and the freedom I had been craving.
He kissed me back instantly—one hand sliding to my waist, the other cupping my cheek as he pulled me closer. My breath hitched. My head spun. God, he kissed like a man who understood exactly how to ruin a woman in all the right ways.
When we broke apart, slightly breathless, he murmured, "You don't even know my name."
"I don't care."
His lips curved into the slowest, sexiest smirk I had ever seen. "Then what do you want from me?"
"I want you," I said plainly. "Tonight."
No stuttering.
No shame.
No hesitation.
He studied me for a moment. Not like he was judging me more like he was making sure I wasn't going to run.
Then he nodded. "Lead the way."
The moment we stepped outside, the cool air hit my skin, but the heat between us didn't fade. He kept close behind me as we walked to my car close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.
"Are you sure?" he asked when we reached the door.
I turned around and pressed him lightly against the car, my fingers brushing the hem of his shirt. "If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have kissed you."
He exhaled slowly. "Then get in."
The drive to my house was a blur of tension, heat, and anticipation. Every stoplight felt like torture. Every turn felt like a countdown. He rested a hand on my thigh halfway through the ride, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.
When I parked, he didn't wait for permission. He opened his door, walked over to mine, and helped me out as if he already knew my body better than my ex-husband ever did.
I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and barely had time to step inside before he caught my waist and spun me around.
His mouth crashed into mine again.
Harder.
Deeper.
Hungrier.
I clung to him, my fingers tangled in his hair, my body pressed against his as if I had been waiting for him all my life.
He lifted me with one arm, my legs wrapping around him instinctively.
My back hit the nearest wall.
He kissed down my neck, biting lightly, sucking harder when I moaned his name
Oh God. I didn't even know his name.
I pulled his face up to mine. "Tell me."
He kissed the corner of my mouth. "Edward."
Edward.
A name that rolled over my tongue like temptation.
"Edward," I whispered. "Take me to my room."
His eyes darkened instantly.
"Yes, Leah," he breathed. "I'll take you anywhere you want."
And as he carried me toward the bedroom, his lips on my throat, his fingers gripping my thighs, his breath hot against my skin, I realized something:
Tonight wasn't about revenge anymore.
It was about losing myself in a man who made me feel more alive in five minutes than Frank ever did in thirteen years.
This wasn't love.
This wasn't healing.
This wasn't some emotional recovery journey.
No.
This was desire.
This was hunger.
This was the beginning of something forbidden.
And God help me, I wanted more.