Divorce ?... That's Foreplay

Marcel’s POV

She was here.

Sitting in the bathtub, her legs drawn to her chest, damp curls sticking to her skin.

Aria.

Her gaze flickered toward me, something soft in her eyes, something real.

"You need to snap out of this, Marcel. You got everything you wanted."

My knuckles went white against the sink.

"Everything I wanted…" My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "But I lost you."

She let out a soft sigh. The kind she used to give me when I worked too late, when she curled up on the couch waiting for me to come home, when we went for events and I left her to talk to partners.

"You had your priorities straight. I just wasn’t at the top of that list."

I flinched at that.... The truth always does that

"That’s not true, baby." My voice was rough, desperate. "After I got the company, I let my father’s words get in my head—that I’d never amount to anything, that I’d burn his legacy to the ground. I let proving him wrong blind me. I let my hatred for him blind my love for you."

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. There was more steam around her, making her look even less real, like a dream I couldn’t hold onto.

"But you need to sleep, eat….go out. Your body will give up on you, and…."

"And I hurt you."

She didn’t respond. Just watched me with those eyes.

The ones I used to wake up to every morning, filled with warmth, with love until I let them fill with pain and tears.

I moved closer, Just enough to reach for her, to touch her.

The second my fingers grazed her skin…

She was gone.

I let out a breath, the kind that felt like it was scraping my ribs on the way out.

The steam was still thick in the air. The shower was still running.

I was still sitting in the corner of the bathroom.

Alone.

Her scent lingered, wrapping around me like a noose, like a cruel joke.

She was never here.

Just an echo in my head. A lingering ghost of the woman who no longer remembered I existed.

And yet, I still kept talking to her.

Because it was the only way I knew how to survive.

One thousand eight hundred twenty-five days , three hours, and thirty seconds without her.

And counting.

I closed my eyes and kept the shower running as the space filled with her scent.

For just a little while, I could breathe.

For just a little while, it was like she was still here by my side where she is always meant to be

But… the doorbell wouldn’t stop ringing.

Edward. Again. I’d told him to fuck off a hundred times, but the old bastard refused to listen. Said he had to “watch me.” Babysit me. Like I was some goddamn invalid instead of a man suffocating in the aftermath of losing the only person who ever mattered.

The bell rang again, sharp and insistent.

I groaned as I got to the door, rubbing my hands down my face before yanking it open, ready to rip into him…

But it wasn’t Edward….it was worse than Edward and before I could open my mouth.

"I have something you need to see," Michael said, walking into my house like he owned the place. He’s lucky he’s been my friend for years.

"What is it?" I groaned as he set his laptop in front of me as I grabbed a drink.

"Remember when I told you last week I saw you at the club?"

I raised an eyebrow, and he gave me a look that said he already knew the answer. I hadn’t been anywhere since the day I chose to ruin my life.

"Exactly my point," he said. "You don’t remember because it wasn’t you or maybe you’ve got a twin I don’t know about."

"Explain," I asked my tone clipped

He turned the screen toward me. A video started playing. It was a club—loud lights, cheap drinks, and girls trying too hard to look classy. My eyes widened as the person on the screen came to view. I pulled the laptop closer.

Why the hell was I looking at myself?

"What is this?" I asked.

"That’s what I want to know," Michael replied. "At first I thought I was wrong." He heaved a sigh and then continued, "But this guy’s left-handed and you’re not. His signature doesn’t match yours. He left with a bunch of women. And when I called, you picked up, but he was still dancing. His phone never rang. The worst part? When I walked up to him and called him by your name, he answered. Someone’s been impersonating you."

It was like a wall of clarity slammed into me. Over the past year, people have said they’d spotted me in random places. I never cared enough to look into it. Until now.

"That’s not the only thing," he went on. "I tracked him back a few years. He’s been to a couple of my hotels and nightclubs. But this one…." He clicked on another video. "This one’s different. He met Aria… and he knocked her out."

There was no sound, but I didn’t need it. I saw her. I saw him—wearing my face. He pulled her toward a dark corner. She stared at him for a minute, then stepped back. I knew that look too well…fear and confusion.

She knew it wasn’t me.

Then he grabbed a metal rod nearby and hit her. Twice. Even when she was already on the ground.

All I saw after that was red. The glass in my hand shattered, bourbon burning my skin.

"Aria’s alright though. I spoke with the doctor," Michael said quickly. "But she suffered a bit of head trauma, resulting in short-term memory loss. She didn't remember how she got outside or being attacked at all."

Then a chuckle hit the air. I looked down at Micheal the fucker thought this was funny?

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry," he said in between laughs, "but it gets worse. Now your wife wakes up in the hospital confused, scared and fresh out of a divorce guess who was there comforting her and apparently even filled the blanks for her..."

He didn't need to complete the statement

Aiden ...

I’d kept an eye on Aria over the years. My men never told me where she was or gave me feedback about her life which was for her own safety. But right now, all I could see was blood.

"Where. is . Aria?”