THE DIVORCE PAPERS I

STORY FOUR: THE DIVORCE PAPERS

PART ONE

CONTENT WARNING: BLINDFOLD SEX

The candlelight flickered across the crisp white tablecloth of Le Bernardin, casting soft golden shadows over the delicate porcelain and crystal stemware. It was supposed to be a celebration—my 26th birthday. I had dressed for the occasion in a sleek black silk slip dress that skimmed my curves, my dark auburn hair falling in loose waves down my back, red lips painted with the confidence I no longer felt.

Marcus Kavanagh sat across from me, his jaw tight, eyes cold. He didn’t touch the wine. He didn’t smile.

“I’m done, Daphne,” he said flatly, cutting through the soft murmur of the restaurant sharply. “I don’t want anything to do with you anymore.”

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. The words hung between us, heavy and unreal.

“What?” My voice came out small and cracked.

Marcus leaned back in his chair, expensive watch glinting under the lights. “You heard me. Four years of this… whatever the fuck this is. I’m finished. You dropped out of school because I asked you to. You gave up that stupid cello dream when I told you it was a waste of time. And let’s be honest—” his lip curled with disgust, “—you used to shake your ass for money in some sleazy club. I tried to look past it, but every time I look at you now, all I see is a cheap whore who got lucky I married her.”

My chest tightened, pain lancing through me like fire. I had danced because I had no one and nothing—surviving on my own terms before Marcus swept in with promises of a better life. Now he weaponized my past against me, throwing it in my face like filth.

“You’ll visit my lawyer to discuss the terms and sign the divorce papers,” he continued, voice devoid of emotion. “If you don’t have them signed and back to me by noon, I’ll make your life a living hell. I have the means. You don’t.”

He stood, tossed a black Amex onto the table without a second glance, and walked out.

I sat there alone, the birthday candles still burning, tears blurring the elegant room into streaks of light. I barely made it back to our—no, his—apartment before the sobs tore out of me. I collapsed onto the cold marble floor of the living room, body shaking, the silk dress now crumpled and meaningless.

My phone buzzed on the floor beside me.

Unknown number. But the message was clear:

“Miss Brand, this is Kenzo Takahashi-Kavanagh, Marcus’s father and legal counsel for the divorce proceedings. I will not be in the office tomorrow. Come to my private residence instead to review and sign the papers. Address attached.”

I stared at the screen, anger flaring hot through the grief. Of course. Even the divorce had to be inconvenient, another power move from the Kavanagh men. Kenzo Takahashi-Kavanagh owned one of the Big Three law firms in the country—a half-Japanese, half-American titan who struck fear into Wall Street and courtrooms alike. I had only met him a handful of times at stiff family functions after that meeting at the club. He had always been polite. Distant. Intimidating.

But I had no choice.

I decided to go back to the club as an exotic dancer because I had no other source of income and the man I had stopped doing the work for had just served me divorce papers. I dressed in a gown that almost didn’t cover my ass—a skin-tight, backless crimson number with a hem that barely skimmed the bottom curve of my cheeks—and left the apartment without looking back.

At the club, while I was preparing to dance for a regular customer, the owner, Rico, pulled me aside urgently.

“Daphne, thank fuck you’re back,” he said, sweat already beading on his forehead. “There’s a VIP who’s been coming in for a whole month straight. Rejects every single girl. Pays for the room but leaves without touching anyone. If he walks out empty-handed again tonight, I’m pretty sure he won’t come back. And a lot of the high-rollers stopped showing up after you quit. You were the main draw, baby. This guy might stay if you work your magic. You’re a fucking blessing tonight.”

He grabbed my arm and led me toward the private VIP section before I could protest.

The moment the heavy velvet curtain parted, my stomach dropped.

It was Kenzo Takahashi-Kavanagh.

His thick, perfectly styled blonde hair framed a devastatingly handsome face—sharp, aristocratic jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing steel-gray eyes that seemed to see straight through me. At forty-eight, he looked every bit the untouchable billionaire lawyer, but far more dangerously attractive than I remembered: broad, powerful shoulders filling out an impeccably tailored black suit that accentuated his tall, athletic build, a deep, commanding presence radiating raw charisma, magnetic power, and undeniable sexual magnetism. He sat alone on the large leather couch, one ankle resting casually on his knee, a glass of amber liquor in his large, elegant hand. Everything about him exuded refined dominance and irresistible allure.

I almost turned on my heel and walked out.

But then the cold calculation hit me like ice water.

What could be a sweeter, filthier revenge than lap-dancing the one man Marcus looked up to and admired more than anyone—his own father?

Kenzo’s deep, commanding, velvety voice cut through the low thump of the bass.

“Young lady, what is your mission here? Be quick. I don’t have all night.”

Thankfully, he didn’t recognize me. The heavy makeup, the dim red lighting, and four years of distance had done their job.

I let a slow, seductive smile curve my red lips. I stepped closer, hips already rolling to the slow, dirty rhythm of the music.

Without a word I turned, giving him my back, and began to move.

I arched my spine, pushing my ass out toward him as I lowered myself onto his lap. The thin fabric of my dress rode up instantly, exposing the full, round cheeks of my ass and the tiny black thong that disappeared between them. I ground down hard, rolling my hips in deep, filthy circles, feeling the growing hardness of his cock beneath me through his expensive trousers.

Kenzo didn’t touch me at first—he simply watched, eyes darkening.

I rose slightly, then dropped again, this time spreading my thighs wider so my bare pussy lips—barely covered by the soaked thong—dragged along the thick ridge of his shaft. I leaned back against his broad, muscular chest, head falling to his shoulder, and reached behind me to grip the back of his neck as I rode him harder. My ass bounced and clapped against his lap in rhythmic, obscene motions, the wet heat of my cunt soaking through the fabric separating us.

I twisted, facing him now, straddling his powerful thighs. My hands braced on his broad shoulders as I rocked forward and back, grinding my clit against the hard length of his cock with deliberate, teasing pressure. My full tits nearly spilled out of the low neckline with every movement. I leaned in close, lips brushing his ear, letting my hot breath tease his skin while my hips never stopped their sinful dance—slow, deep grinds followed by fast, desperate bucks that made my ass jiggle violently.

Kenzo’s breathing grew ragged. His large hands finally gripped my waist, fingers digging into my soft flesh as he guided my movements, pulling me down harder onto his throbbing erection.

When the song ended, I didn’t stop immediately. I slid off his lap, turned, and perched myself on the low glass table directly in front of him. I spread my legs wide, red stilettos planted firmly on either side of his knees. With deliberate slowness I hooked a finger into the tiny strip of my thong and pulled it aside, fully exposing my glistening, shaved pussy to his hungry gaze.

Kenzo’s intense steel-gray eyes locked onto my slick folds. His hand moved to his belt, unzipping his trousers. He pulled out his thick, veined cock—heavy, long, and already leaking precum at the tip. He wrapped his fist around it and began to stroke slowly, watching me. The sight of his impressive, perfectly formed cock only heightened his overwhelming attractiveness.

I whimpered at the sight. I leaned back on one hand, the other sliding down my body until my fingers reached my dripping cunt. I parted my swollen lips with two fingers, showing him how wet I was, then began to pleasure myself right there—rubbing tight, fast circles over my swollen clit before plunging two fingers deep inside my tight hole. Wet, obscene sounds filled the private room as I fucked myself with my fingers, hips rolling, moaning softly while staring straight into his eyes.

Kenzo’s strokes grew faster, his massive cock twitching in his grip, veins standing out as he pumped himself harder.

“Touch it,” he growled, voice rough with lust. “Fucking touch my cock.”

I bit my lip, whimpering louder as my fingers thrust deeper. “It’s… it’s not part of my job description to touch clients’ private parts,” I whispered breathlessly, even as my pussy clenched visibly around my fingers at the thought.

Kenzo’s eyes flared with dark hunger. His hand slowed on his shaft, still gripping the thick base.

“Then meet me in my car in twenty minutes,” he said, voice low and commanding. When I didn’t answer immediately, he leaned forward, still slowly stroking his leaking cock. “Please. I’ll pay you fifty times what you make here tonight. Just… come to the car.”

I stood up slowly, adjusting the tiny dress back over my ass, my thighs shiny with my own arousal. I looked down at him, a wicked little smile playing on my lips.

“I’ll meet you there in exactly twenty minutes,” I said softly, then turned and exited the VIP room, heart pounding with a dangerous mix of revenge and raw, forbidden desire.