How low can you go?

~ SIENNA ~

        

Finding out my husband is fúcking his manager was bad enough. Getting dealt a smoky slap by that manager was the nail in the coffin. 

        

Convinced the day couldn’t get any worse, I agreed to go to a bar with Margo. Ever since the incident that happened the last time I was at one, bars had become my least favourite place — after hospitals. 

        

The music was slow but with a strong tempo; low enough to allow conversation, loud enough for guests to enjoy a dance. Just perfect. 

         

“Finally we get to hangout after all the times you cancelled on me because ’Harry needs you’,” Margo quipped, sipping her margarita like she was in a commercial. Forever the graceful lady. 

        

I couldn’t defend myself — she was right. I let Harry isolate me from everybody dear to me and what did I get in return? Lies, betrayal and divorce papers with the most insensitive conditions. 

        

It didn’t matter that I funded our wedding and honeymoon because he didn’t have much at the time. It didn’t matter that I spent the last five years outside the workforce because he wanted me to be a housewife. It didn’t matter that I was literally the brain behind the success of his company and gave it its first major investment. From the terms on the divorce papers, Harry was determined to leave me high and dry.

        

This afternoon, he had stood by Cassy after she slapped me. While still standing in shock from the slap, I watched her turn to caress Harry’s face, rubbing the spot of my slap as if she was some genie and her touch could magically make the pain disappear. At that moment, I prayed for the ground to open up and swallow me. But it didn’t. In its defense, it needed to be there for me to do the walk of shame when Harry finally ordered me to leave his office.  

        

“Guess what?” Margo’s voice snapped me back to the present. 

        

“It’s the last thing I want to do,” I murmured, downing another shot of tequila and biting lime. 

        

Without another word, she slid her phone to me on the table. On the screen was a picture of Harry and Cassy in the position we had caught them in. My heart rate quickened.

        

Margot looked super proud of herself. “I was able to capture just one before they separated. For legal purposes. To prove he was also cheating.”

        

“Also?”

        

“I mean… to prove he was the one actually cheating. That way, you can negotiate the terms of the divorce.”

        

I sighed as I picked the phone to see the picture clearly. Harry was looking at Cassy like she hand sorted every star in the Milky Way. I couldn’t remember the last time he looked at me like that. Without thinking, I clicked the delete option and watched the picture disappear. I didn’t need a memento from the worst moment of my life. 

        

Margo was horrified to see what I did. “Don’t tell me the heartbreak has driven you insane!” she snapped. “How do you intend to contest his divorce terms if you’re not collating evidence of his wrongdoing?”

        

“I don’t want to fight Harry in court, Margo. It will make the divorce more publicized and things could get messy. That would break me. Besides, we don’t have any kids so he owes me nothing-“

        

“What do you mean he owes you nothing?!” She noticed she got too loud and softened her tone, leaning closer to me. “You and I know that if you weren’t involved, Joseman Constructions would have folded a long time ago and Harry would be living the rest of his days as an upcoming musician.”

        

That forced a laugh out of me. Harry had quite the passion for music. He always said if he wasn’t an engineer, he would have been a musician. While we were dating, he used to serenade me a lot.

        

“You know that’s not true. He sings quite well,” I objected.

        

She shook her head. “You’re still defending him. You know, I thought it was the séx. I thought maybe he was so good in bed, you couldn’t see beyond his séxual prowess. But I saw his díck this afternoon and that thing can fit in a thimble,” she ranted, wriggling her pinky finger. 

        

“Margo Darby!” I exclaimed.

        

“My mother taught me to tell the truth,” she said with a shrug and returned to sipping her drink.

        

I pulled the divorce papers out of my bag and began to flip through. Even though Harry’s secretary had delivered them last week, they remained unsigned because I was still in denial — up until this afternoon. In that office, I saw why Harry barely came home anymore. Cassy was his happy place. I had really lost my husband.

        

Before the tears could completely cloud my vision, I fished a pen from my bag and signed the divorce papers in all the places that required my signature. Then I pulled off my wedding ring which Harry had been promising to upgrade since forever and put it in the envelope along with the divorce papers. Margo’s jaw was still on the floor when I finally slipped everything back into my bag.

        

“See? Done! I’m a single lady!” I rejoiced, stumbling up from my chair. The room seemed to tilt slightly to the left. Or was it the right? I couldn’t tell.

        

“Where are you going, Sienna?”

        

“To the dance floor. To do what single ladies do!”

        

She didn’t stop me. She couldn’t stop me. Nobody could. I was done asking for permission from anybody to do what I wanted. And right now, I wanted to dance. I made my way to the heart of the dance floor, swaying my hips to the lively music. I hadn’t danced for long when I felt a presence behind me. 

        

“Why is a beautiful woman like you dancing alone?”

        

I turned to see a lanky man looking at me with lustful eyes even with my simple T-shirt and jorts. He seemed nervous, like he thought I was above his league. I was. Regardless, I flashed him a flirtatious smile. 

        

“I was waiting for you.” The words tasted like sawdust on my tongue. 

        

“Well, here I am.” He put his hands on my waist and we started dancing. I had not been this sinfully close to a man that wasn’t Harry in years and my heart was beating like I was doing something wrong. I reminded myself that I was now divorced and could do whatever I liked. 

        

“Want to take this to the next level?” he asked after a few minutes of dancing — and stepping on my toes. 

        

I took a proper look at my dancing partner. He looked okay enough. Maybe I was vain but what was that thing they said about leveling up after an ex? This man was not nearly as handsome or classy as Harry but I wasn’t about to marry him. I just needed him to scratch an ‘itch’. And with the way his eyes twinkled, he was born ready.

        

“What is the next level?”

        

“Let me show you,” he answered, leading me away from the dance floor.

        

In a minute, we were in the bar’s surprisingly deserted toilet and he locked the door like he owned the place, which amused me. Our hands were all over each other and it was going well — until he brought his lips to mine. I immediately got the ick. Kisses are reserved for men I’m actually attracted to. 

        

“Just fúck me,” I countered. “Got a condóm?”

        

“A gentleman always does,” he answered, digging in his pocket for it. He was no gentleman but I said nothing as I waited, bent against the sink while he slipped the condóm on.

        

He lifted my T-shirt and I felt the exact moment he stilled. The calloused hand digging into my hips let go and his whole body tensed. It seemed like he had seen Medusa and turned into stone.

        

Before I could ask what the problem was, he spoke, “Bloody hell… people still do this fúckery?”

        

“What fúckery?” 

        

“Putting names of fúckers on their body… Who the fúck is Harry?”

        

Shít. Shít. Shít!

        

I had completely forgotten about my tattoo. In the early days of our marriage when I was still drunk in love, I had suggested to Harry that we get matching tattoos. Maybe a heart or our wedding date on our wrists.

        

I am not sure exactly when the tides shifted but we visited a tattoo shop and I walked out with a tattoo of his name on my lower back, right above my waistline, while he got no tattoo. 

        

Maybe the fact that it was on my back and I didn’t see it often, combined with how long it had been since Harry commented on it, contributed to the tattoo being nearly non-existent in my books.

        

In record time, the man had pulled his pants back up and was blowing hot, “If any daughter of mine ever inks a random man’s name on her body, I’d disown her. Only a simp would fùck a woman while reading another man’s name off her waist like a chant.”

        

With that, he stormed out of the toilet, slamming the door much harder than necessary. I was right; he was not a gentleman.

        

As I fixed my own clothing, watching my face in the mirror, I could only think of how low I had fallen. 

        

Sienna Monroe. Havard cúm laude engineering graduate. Only child of the biggest hoteliers in New York. Once happily married to her college sweetheart. 

        

Now estranged from her family. Divorced on accusation of adultery. Broke and jobless. 

        

Oh, and so séx starved, she was ready to fúck a stranger in a public toilet. But even he bailed out on her.

        

I could taste my tears as they reached my mouth; they tasted like shame and failure. How low can you go, Sienna Monroe?