Prologue #2
“That’s not something to brag about,” he mutters, laughing into his glass.
“Depends on how you look at it.” I grin.
“Is she the kind who’ll be into that surprise reunion thing?” he asks, tilting his head.
“She’s the kind that’ll either kiss me or kill me.”
Sebastian raises his glass again. “Either way, it’s gonna be entertaining. I have to hear how it goes.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I promise, then pause. “Maybe.”
He smirks, “Spoken like a man who’s missed a good lay.”
* * *
Steam curls around me as the hot water crashes down in steady beats against my skin. The jet’s shower is a luxury I never thought I’d experience soon. Military showers are ten seconds of freezing water and prayers, not this rainstorm-from-heaven shit.
Sebastian's voice cuts through the sound of water like an unwanted alarm.
“Try not to flood the cabin, pal. You’re not in a jungle anymore.”
I chuckle, loud. “Give it five more minutes and I’ll start singing.”
“Oh, God no,” he groans from the other side of the door. “Spare me the trauma.”
I step out, grabbing the heated towel from the warmer—of course it’s heated, this is royal-level pampering. Tossing it over my shoulders, I push the door open and see him scrolling through something on his phone, glass of something dark in his hand.
I whistle. “This how you travel all the time?”
He smirks. “It has its perks. But honestly? I miss the desert grit sometimes.”
I roll my eyes. “You miss sand in your ass crack? You’re broken.”
“I meant the simplicity. But sure, that too.”
We share a grin, unspoken understanding hanging between us. The war might’ve scarred us, but it stitched us together too.
An hour later, we land.
The airstrip smells like money, private jets, chauffeurs, glinting cars, and a silence that’s too clean. Sebastian’s driver is already waiting with a slick black car, and next to it is a rugged matte grey beast of a vehicle that has my name all over it.
He slaps the hood. “Your ride, brother. Drive safe and don’t crash it if your online girlfriend ditches you.”
“Har har,” I mutter, tossing my duffel in the back.
Sebastian grins. “I’m serious, though. Keep me posted. And if you go radio silent for more than twenty-four hours, I’m assuming she tied you up in a basement.”
I raise a brow. “Kinky.”
He pulls me into a brief hug. “Welcome home, man.”
“Thanks,” I say, sincerity coating the word. “See you after your Melbourne bow-and-wave bullshit.”
He salutes me with two fingers, then vanishes behind his tinted window like the royal pain in the ass he is.
The drive is quiet. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful. I’m not used to the silence—no hum of comms, no thump of boots, no sharp bark of orders. Just the low hum of tires and the occasional thought that cuts a little too deep.
Amanda’s street appears before I even realize it. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter. It’s not nerves. I don’t get nervous.
But there’s something…off.
Something wrong.
Like my gut is whispering a warning I can’t translate.
I glance at her house from down the block. Familiar from the pics she sent. Flowers on the porch. That little hanging swing she told me about. Lights on.
But my brain, like a scratched record, keeps replaying the same damn line: Don’t go.
My friends always said these online things are all smoke and mirrors. Women using lonely soldiers to make someone else jealous or the thrill. Or the attention. The sympathy. The fantasy of a man who’ll throw himself into danger and still call them sweet at the end of the day.
Bullshit. I knew it then, and I still want to believe it’s bullshit now.
Because women? They were never the problem. I’ve had more than I can count. Military uniform turns them on like flipping a switch. I never had to chase.
But I never stayed either.
Relationships? Not for me. I don’t do the feelings thing.
No drama.
No heartbreak.
No mess.
Just in, out, thanks for the memories. That’s my rhythm. Steady. Controlled.
Then Amanda slid into my DMs. Sweet voice. Smart mouth. Pretty face. We clicked fast. Laughed a lot. Her pics? Gorgeous. But it was more than that, something in the way she wrote, the way she saw me. It was… rare.
Still, I know better.
I’ve seen too many of my brothers get divorce papers in a bunker. Heard the horror stories of wives cheating, friends lying, families ghosting them. Love is just a word people hide behind. No one stays faithful. No one sticks forever.
Maybe I’m broken. Or maybe love’s just a nice little story people tell themselves to sleep at night. Me? I stopped looking for it a long time ago.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog.
And yet… here I am. Parked in front of her place like some high school kid waiting to deliver flowers and heartbreak.
What the fuck am I doing?
For the first time in a long time, I feel it, that pull to turn back. To vanish. To book a ticket to Ibiza and lose myself in sun, sex, and forgetfulness.
Everything feels so fucking off.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. I glance at the house again. Her silhouette isn’t in the window. Nothing moves. But the unease crawls deeper under my skin.
I close my eyes, breathing in slowly.
What the hell are you walking into, Nate?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again.
Persistent.
I ignore it and lift my fist to knock, knuckles grazing against the wood like I’m trying to wake something dead inside me. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I should’ve turned the damn car around. Should’ve listened to the little voice screaming don’t.
Too late.
The door creaks open, and the guy standing on the other side instantly throws me off balance.
About 5’5”, stocky but not fat, with pressed chinos and a button-down shirt like he just walked out of some law firm that only people with trust funds can afford. His hair is neatly combed, glasses perched on his nose, and his vibe screams estate planner with an ego problem.
“Yes?” he asks, with an eyebrow raised like I’m selling solar panels.
I blink, take a step back, double-check the house number. Still hers. Or what should’ve been hers. I take off my sunglasses slowly, because something doesn’t add up.
“Sorry. Must’ve gotten the wrong place,” I mutter. “I’m looking for Amanda Shirley.”
His eyes widen a fraction.
Then he laughs.
Wait—laughs?
“Nate?” he says with a kind of giddy familiarity that makes the hairs on my neck prickle.
I cock a brow, stiff. “Yeah?”
He beams like we’re best friends who did shots together at a college reunion. “Hey, man! So happy to finally meet you.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Gabe. Come on in.”
I stare at the hand. Tanned forearms, manicured nails, a subtle designer watch. This guy doesn’t scream ‘Amanda’s type’ in any way I imagined.
Still, my body moves on instinct. Soldier reflex. I follow.
Big mistake.
The second I walk in, I don’t have to ask any questions. The answers slap me in the face like a belt to the cheek.
There’s pictures everywhere. Beach trips. One in Singapore. One in Auckland with the sky tower behind them. A few selfies, messy hair and warm smiles. Then one framed prominently in the hallway.
Wedding photo.
My jaw tightens.
“Amanda will be so thrilled to finally hug you,” Gabe says, completely oblivious to the sound of my heart slamming against my ribs like a fucking battering ram. “She can’t stop talking about you.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My brain is buffering.
This isn’t disappointment. It’s not even betrayal.
This is what the actual fuck.
I walk slower, like the floor might collapse under me. My eyes keep darting to the images, like maybe if I blink enough they’ll vanish.
“She’s—uh—she’s talked about me?” I ask, careful with every word.
He laughs again, like this is some inside joke I missed the punchline to. “Of course, man. She said you’ve got this rugged, broody thing going on. I get it now.”
I grunt. “How long have you two been married?” I haven’t seen it in her records, not that I truly had a round check on her.
“Almost five years but it’s not, like, officially official,” he says proudly, like that’s a good thing to tell the guy your wife’s been sexting for the last two months. “I can tell why she’s into you.”
My stomach drops. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it?” he replies with a cocked brow, totally unfazed. “We’ve been looking for a while for someone to join us.”
A long pause.
Then it’s when I get it.
Join us?
Oh hell no.
I take a step back so fast I nearly trip over the corner of a rug. My face must be saying everything I’m trying not to shout.
“This was a fucking mistake,” I mutter, already turning on my heel.
“Huh?” he says, confused. “Wait—”
“I’m not into sharing,” I snap over my shoulder. “Tell Amanda to stick to Craigslist next time.”
I slam the door behind me. Fresh air slaps my face, but it’s not enough. I feel sick. The kind of sick that starts in your chest and claws its way through your spine.
My phone buzzes again.
Same number.
Dad’s office.
Fuck.
Five missed calls. This one’s about to go to voicemail when I swipe to answer. “Yeah.”