Chapter 19
AVA
T here’s something therapeutic about mascara.
It’s like war paint. I make slow, deliberate strokes, darkening my lashes as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I look good .
I take my time curling my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders the way Roman always liked—except this time, I’m not doing it for him.
This time, it’s for me, and maybe Adam.
And if Roman notices? That’s his problem. He would be fucking me in this dress if he wasn’t such a cheating bastard.
This is his favourite dress.
The dress is red and tight in all the right places, hugging my curves. I slip it on, smoothing it over my hips, letting it cling to my body like a second skin.
Then I add lipstick—blood red, just to match.
There’s a faint knock on the door behind me before it opens.
I don’t have to look. I already know it’s him.
This is the thing about marriage—you end up knowing everything about each other—including how they knock. A pang of sadness pools in my stomach, but I refuse to let it ruin my night.
“What is it?” I ask, still watching myself in the mirror. My heart pounds beneath his heated gaze, but I force myself to say her name in my head, reminding myself what he did to me.
Annie.
There’s a long pause, then I hear him exhale.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Dressed like that ?”
I finally meet his eyes in the mirror. “Yes. Dressed like this .”
His jaw flexes. “Who with?”
“Does it matter?”
He steps into the room, arms crossed. He looks like he hasn’t slept—stubble across his jaw, eyes bloodshot and wild. “You’re not doing this, Ava. Not to me.”
I turn slowly, one heel clicking against the floor. “But it was okay for you to do this to me , right? Not everything is about you , Roman.”
He gapes at me, before clapping his lips together in a firm line that tells me he’s fucking pissed.
Good.
I used to love his alpha energy, used to find it so sexy. I guess I still do.
Remember Annie.
His gaze drops to my dress, then drags back up to my eyes, like he’s trying to find the wife he used to know somewhere in the unfamiliar form of the woman standing in front of him.
“You’re doing this to punish me,” he mutters.
I smile. “Maybe I am.”
“You don’t even know this guy.” His jaw ticks, and adrenaline pumps through my body.
Who knew I was into this? Driving my cheating husband insane with jealousy?
“His name’s Adam. He’s kind, and he makes me laugh. And he didn’t cheat on me while I raised our daughter.”
Roman flinches.
I don’t apologise.
He steps closer. “I can’t stand the thought of you with someone else.”
Oh, and I fucking loved the thought of you fucking Annie.
Instead, I shrug. “You should’ve thought about that before.”
Then I grab my perfume, spritz it at my neck, and watch as his expression darkens. He used to love this scent. He used to bury his face in my neck and tell me I smelled like home.
Now he looks like he might break something.
“You’re still married to me ,” he grinds out. “You’re still my wife .”
“And you’re still the man who wrecked our marriage.” I hold his gaze as I walk past him, my heels loud and sharp on the hardwood floor.
He follows me downstairs. “Is this what you want now? To be with someone else?”
“No,” I reply, pulling on my coat. “I want to feel like a woman again. Like me. Like I’m more than just the scorned woman who wasn’t good enough for her husband.”
He swallows hard. “Don’t do this, Ava.”
I pause at the door and glance back at him. “I’m not doing anything you didn’t do first.”
Then I leave, letting the door slam behind me, leaving him in the hallway, no doubt breathing like an angry lion, fists clenched, the red of my dress probably burned into his memory.
The restaurant is cozy, all soft jazz and flickering candle lights. It’s intimate and romantic. Exactly the kind of place someone would bring a woman they wanted to impress—like Roman used to. Maybe like he did with Annie.
Fucking Annie.
My heels click loudly against the marble floor as I follow the host to the table. It feels strange entering a restaurant by myself after years of having my husband by my side. But hey, this is a new me. I lift my chin and fix a smile on my face as I approach Adam.
Adam isn’t as tall as Roman, but he stands when he sees me which is nice.
He’s a gentleman. He’s handsome in a clean-cut, safe kind of way—light brown hair, sharp jaw, that confident, polite smile I’ve only ever seen on men who aren’t cheaters.
He’s the opposite of Roman. And maybe that’s why I agreed to this.
“You look…” His gaze moves over me, slow and appreciative. “Wow.”
A shiver runs through me at the desire hanging in his words. He looks like he wants to bend me over the table.
So much for being a gentleman.
“Thanks,” I say, tucking a curl behind my ear. “You clean up well, too.”
He pulls out my chair, and I sit, crossing my legs slowly, trying to act like I do this all the time. Like I haven’t been married for almost a decade. Like I didn’t just cry into my pillow three nights ago.
Remember Annie.
My back stiffens, and I imagine stabbing her in the eye before my face relaxes into a genuine smile.
The server brings menus, and Adam asks about my day. I answer, but I’m not sure what I’m saying. I can feel the neckline of my dress a little too sharply against my collarbone, feel the weight of his eyes as I shift in my seat.
I want to relax.
I want to be someone else for the night.
I want to want this.
But every time he smiles, every time he says something sweet, I feel the ghost of Roman’s voice in my ear. The way he used to make me laugh. The way he used to look at me like I was the only woman in the world.
I shove the memory away.
Fuck Roman.
Adam orders a bottle of wine. I admire his confidence, and soon I’m leaning forward, gazing at him, trying to act like I belong here. When the server leaves, he leans closer.
“You okay?”
I blink. “What?”
“You seem a little tense.”
Shit.
I force a smile. “Just…out of practice.”
He grins. “We’ll go slow.”
God, he’s nice. He’s polite and charming and easy to talk to, and every time his hand brushes the table close to mine, I feel a tiny flutter in my tummy.
It’s not a Roman flutter, but maybe I don't want anything like Roman.
“I have to admit,” Adam comments, swirling his wine, “I didn’t think you’d say yes to a date. It seems like everything in your world is a little complicated.”
I arch a brow. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all,” he responds with a crooked smile. “I like complicated. It means there’s something real beneath your beauty.”
I sip my wine, letting it burn a little on the way down. “Oh, there’s plenty beneath the surface.”
Am I flirting?
The conversation gets easier. He’s funny, and I find myself laughing.
The food arrives, and I manage to eat most of it.
It’s nice to have my appetite back. We talk about childhood memories and travel dreams and embarrassing college stories.
He doesn’t ask about Roman—not directly—but I catch the flicker of curiosity behind his eyes when I mention Poppy.
At the end of the night, when we stand outside under the restaurant’s string lights, Adam doesn’t step back—he steps closer .
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through my dress.
His eyes search mine, and I see it—the question. The want. But he waits, so fucking patient.
“I had a really great time tonight,” he says softly.
I nod, swallowing. “Me too.”
His fingers brush mine. “You don’t owe me anything, Ava. Just…don’t shut yourself off, okay? You’re allowed to want things.”
There’s a long beat of silence before I answer. “I know.”
He moves closer, hand coming to rest lightly on my waist. “Is this okay?”
My body answers before my mind can. I nod.
And then he kisses me.
It starts slow—tentative. But I lean in, press my lips to his with more certainty.
His hand slides up to cradle my jaw, and the moment deepens.
My mouth parts. He groans, low and quiet, as our tongues meet, the kiss turning hungrier, hotter.
His other hand slides around my back, pulling me flush against him.
I melt into it, into him, letting the tension of the past few weeks drain out through every soft drag of his mouth, every gentle tug of my bottom lip between his teeth.
It feels good to be wanted like this; to feel like I’m someone worth kissing again.
When we break apart, I’m breathless, his forehead resting against mine.
“You’re stunning,” he murmurs.
And for the first time in weeks, I actually believe it.
He kisses me again, deeper this time—his lips hot and searching, like he’s trying to savour my taste. I let myself get lost in it. My hands slide into his hair, my body pressing closer, my pulse pounding in my ears.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes you forget the world exists outside it.
And I need that.
I need to forget.
But then?—
“ Ava ?”
It’s like someone has thrown a bucket of ice water over me. I freeze, lips still parted, chest heaving. My eyes flutter open, searching the dim space just beyond the glow of the string lights.
That voice .
My breath catches. I pull back from Adam, heart thudding in my chest.
He follows my gaze, confused. “Are you okay?”
But I’m not listening.
Because someone is standing just beyond the edge of the patio, cloaked in shadow. Watching us silently, their fists clenched by their sides.
I squint. I can't see their face clearly—but I feel the weight of their stare.
I know that look.
A smile curves on my lips.
My husband has arrived.