19

Kendra smirked bitterly, even after everything—after the lies, the betrayal, the way he had shattered her life into jagged pieces, he still had the audacity to send a message like that.

She dropped her phone onto the silk sheets, her chest tightening so sharply she had to press a hand against it, as if she could physically hold her heart together. The pain wasn’t just emotional anymore; it sat heavy in her ribs, squeezing the breath from her lungs.

His actions had already carved deep wounds in her heart, but what hurt worse was the complete absence of remorse.

Not even a hint of guilt from him. No late-night confessions or desperate pleas for forgiveness. Just this casual, entitled message, as if he still had any right to reach across the ruins he’d left behind.

Maybe he didn’t even understand what he’d done. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t care. He married her for the money, for the security her family name provided, he never married her for love.

All the proposals, the sweet appreciation, the forehead kisses, they're all fake.

And then he’d taken her best friend to bed, right under her nose, like it was nothing. She still remembered when he began acting weird that she had to search his phone and trace him to that secret villa where she found out the truth.

Yet here he was, messaging her like nothing had changed.

She had blocked him everywhere, on her phone, social media, email. But he still went on to contact her with another number.

Kendra sat up straighter on the edge of the bed, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. She raked her fingers through her hair, messing up the waves she’d tried to tame earlier.

He wouldn’t even let her heal in peace. No apology. No acknowledgement of the wreckage.

People are supposed to regret the pain they caused, weren’t they? To carry some weight, some shadow of conscience. But Richard? He moved through life like the consequences were for other people.

She ruffled her hair again, frustration and sorrow twisting together until she couldn’t sit still.

She swung her legs off the bed and stood, bare feet cold against the marble.

With a quick, almost angry motion, she snatched her phone and walked out of the bedroom.

The mansion was silent. The maids must have retired hours ago; their quarters were far enough away that she felt truly alone.

Her footsteps echoed softly down the wide hallway as she made her way toward the cellar.

Sleep was impossible for her tonight, because her thoughts would chase her into dreams.

She needed something to dull the edges. Whiskey, maybe. Or just the act of doing something, anything, to push the hurt aside.

In the cellar, the air was cooler, scented with oak and aged spirits. Dim recessed lights glowed along the stone walls, illuminating rows of bottles like silent witnesses.

Kendra set her phone on a low table, her hands trembling slightly as she selected a bottle of whiskey.

The liquid glugged heavily into a crystal glass. She took a long sip, the burn sliding down her throat and blooming warmth in her chest. It wasn’t enough. Tears slipped down her cheeks anyway, hot and unbidden.

How did other women survive this? She’d heard the stories her whole life—married women quietly divorcing cheating husbands, carrying the shame and rage in silence.

Even her own father had cheated on her mother, and somehow they had endured. But this pain felt personal, intimate, like it was hollowing her out from the inside. It clawed at her mental health.

If Richard had cheated with anyone else, maybe she could have found solace in shared anger with her friend. But he hadn’t. He’d chosen the one person who made the betrayal cut twice as deep.

She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand and took another sip, the glass cool against her lips.

That was when the memory surfaced, Knox’s text from this morning: *If you want to talk, text me, princess.*

She bit her lip hard enough to feel the sting.

Knox. "Who is he?" She asked herself.

She ignored him earlier, burying the message under layers of resolve. But tonight, with the whiskey warming her blood and the pain too loud to ignore, the temptation felt different.

“I should text that motherfucker,” she muttered to the empty cellar, a half-smile breaking through the tears.

She picked up her phone again, thumbs hovering before she typed the simple words:

[Hi, wanna talk?]The message was delivered almost instantly.

She set the phone down, her heart thudding, and smirked at her own boldness.

“How the hell did that motherfucker even get my new number?” she whispered, shaking her head.

Minutes stretched, thick with anticipation. Then her phone buzzed. She snatched it up, her breath catching as she opened the reply.

[Your place or mine, my beautiful storm.]

She rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth.

“Bastard,” she breathed.

Her fingers flew across the screen. [Your place, you wouldn’t murder me, would you?]

His response came fast, [No baby, I’m sure my dick won’t kill you.]

Heat flushed her cheeks. She bit her lip again, rolling her eyes even as a genuine smile broke free.

The banter felt like a lifeline, pulling her out of the suffocating grief.

[I guess my place is final. Would you like me to pick you up?] [I can’t wait to spank your ass!]

“Fucker!” she typed back quickly. [Come pick me up now!]

Excitement sparked in her veins, bright and electric, cutting through the fog of pain.

She stood abruptly, leaving the half-empty glass behind, and hurried upstairs to her room.

Her conscience nagged at the edges— What are you doing? This is reckless. You’re still healing, still bleeding*—but she shoved it down.

In her bedroom, she slipped out of her comfortable pyjamas into a short, deep V-neck gown that hugged her curves and barely skimmed the tops of her thighs.

The fabric was soft, dangerous, the neckline plunging just enough to tease. She stood before the full-length mirror, turning slowly. Her hair fell in loose, tousled waves after she ran her fingers through it again.

She applied a bold lipstick on her lips, a touch of mascara to hide the redness in her eyes, and simple but sexy slides on her feet. Comfortable enough to move in, but nothing that said she was trying too hard.

She stared at her reflection, the pain was still there, a dull ache beneath the surface, but so was defiance. Richard thought he could break her? Let him choke on the sight of her moving on, if he ever found out.

“Let’s go, baby,” she whispered to her reflection, blowing herself a playful kiss. Her voice held a mix of nerves and thrill. The excitement in her eyes was real, sparkling against the lingering shadows of hurt.

She grabbed a small clutch, tossed her phone inside, and headed downstairs.

When she reached downstairs, Mrs Harlan and Chef Amara were standing at the dining table. They both exchanged glances, which Kendra scoffed at.

"Miss Ree, it's late...you...

"I'm going out," Kendra took a glance at her wrist watch, and gasped.

It's eleven pm in the night, now she knows why the two women looked shocked.

But she just has to clear her head. She walked out of the door, two bodyguards followed her without being told.