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Coffee, Contracts, and Catastrophe
Last Updated:
2025-08-26 15:14:17
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His Ex Mistress, His Enemy calm, collected
Zane’s plate held nothing but slick duck bones and a smear of chili that looked like a war map. He leaned back as if the white table were a boardroom instead of a villa terrace facing the ocean. He wiped the corner of his mouth once with a tissue. He’s calm, far too collected for someone who’d just promised to make a man regret owning fingers.I pushed up from my chair. Bali’s heat clung to my skin like a stranger with boundary issues. The hoodie I’d worn earlier felt like the worst decision of the day, so I yanked it over my head; my hair snagged, then slipped free in one rough pull.The sticky air bit down right away. My T-shirt clung to my back. I fanned myself with the hoodie and let out a short huff. Then another. Like a busted engine I still hadn’t taken to the shop.He lifted a brow.“Don’t start,” I warned while wiping sweat from my neck. “I can feel my pores forming political opinions.”He rose, plate in one hand. His sleeves stayed rolled, veins visible along his wrist, his
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Later, Babe
The wooden gate bearing Zane’s name came into view again, this time from the opposite direction. Winona’s Vespa slowed, its snarl dropping to a murmur before going fully quiet near the small resort lobby.The heat struck first. The paving stones held the sun like a grudge. A faint breath of sea air surfaced, held back by the expensive diffuser scent from the lobby, blindingly white.I got off the Vespa, my knee lodging a mild complaint. My hand still pressed Winona’s phone inside my jacket pocket. It didn’t weigh much. My brain made up the difference.“I’m heading back to my villa.” Winona took off her helmet, her hair a mess in a way that deserved a haircare sponsorship. “I want to ask the staff about a car rental, if you need to bolt in the middle of the night, I’m ready.”I pulled out her phone before she could ask for it. The screen was still open on that chat. The tiny lipstick emoji stared back at me with a crooked smile.I leaned in, lifted my phone. A few shots. The chat. The
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Where He Hated
Our plates were nothing but bone evidence. Duck skin that had once felt like armor lay scattered as crisp crumbs across the wooden table. The matah sambal had bled into a bruise of green-purple on the surface, a fingerprint that refused to fade. My orange ice had surrendered into cold water, two lonely cubes melting with slow resignation.Winona wiped her mouth with a tissue, then studied the rice fields behind me as if deciding whether this could pass for a getaway spot after committing financial fraud.I reached for my water, took a swallow, felt the sambal lingering along the edges of my tongue. Outside the shack, wind combed through young rice, insects kept up their endless chatter. When my life wasn’t on fire, I could almost believe the world truly worked this way: eat. fill up. go home.Winona slid her plate aside. The tip of her nail tapped the table once. Not loud. Just enough to change the tempo.“Erick.”His name hit the surface between us like a dropped spoon.I didn’t lift
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy A Low-Res Déjà Vu
Winona’s Vespa let out a small growl as we rolled out of the resort area, the front tire slipping past a wooden gate stamped with Zane’s name in a font far too elegant for any mortal.The wind slapped my face right away. Warm, damp, touched with the scent of the ocean, quickly replaced by earth and exhaust. I’d swapped Zane’s hoodie for a simple tee and jeans, but I was still wearing his sunglasses. Too big for me. Half my face hidden, and honestly, I liked it.“Hold on, señora!” Winona yelled from the front, her hair whipping beneath the helmet. “If you fall off, I can’t explain to Zane that I killed his girlfriend.”My arms were already snug around her waist. “If I fall off, he won’t shoot you. He’ll torture you slowly with legal contracts.”“Contracts are worse,” Winona agreed. She twisted the throttle, and the Vespa zipped down a narrow road lined with villas, small cafés, handwritten signs advertising “smoothie bowls” and “tattoos.”We rounded a bend, and the little town graduall
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Vacation Mode
Ten in the morning in Bali feels like six in the evening in my brain.I’m sinking into the villa’s living-room sofa, drowned in Zane’s oversized hoodie. The sleeves swallow my hands all the way to the fingers, and every time I move, the fabric slides with me, soft and slick, smelling far too much like Zane to qualify as neutral clothing.Up front, the glass door is half open. The blue ocean sits quiet beneath the cliff, the sun climbing slow, the breeze slipping in with salt and the faint scent of sambal drifting from the kitchen.I’m doing nothing. Phone in hand, a warm box of siomay on the table. My newest life discovery: steamed fish balls and tofu with thick peanut sauce, sambal, and a squeeze of tiny lime. The perfect child between an arepa and an empanada in some alternate form.I stab a piece with a plastic fork, drag it through the sauce, squeeze lime over it, and pop it into my mouth. Soft, rich, savory, spicy, tangy. My brain waves a white flag.“Fine,” I mumble to the box.
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Pause
I woke to the sound of the sea.Not an alarm, not a notification, not Ash screaming “MAMIII, PEPPEEERRR…,” just the waves rising and falling beneath the cliff, slow and rhythmic. Like someone knocking on the edge of the world with handfuls of foam.My eyes cracked open. Wooden ceiling. Sheer white curtains drifting lazily. A slice of blue sky and a line of ocean far too beautiful for a Wednesday morning.And a heavy arm wrapped around my waist.Warm breath grazed my nape. A faint beard brushed the skin behind my ear. A solid chest pressed to my back. Thigh muscles fitted along mine. A whole limited-edition heating system holding me hostage on the bed.Usually, this is when my brain would boot up: counting hours, recalling schedules, scrolling news-ticker thoughts across my skull. Breakfast time, whose email, which client, what threat. Now… nothing.Not peaceful nothing. More like my brain pulled a blanket over itself and muttered, “go back to sleep, idiot.”I stayed curled toward the
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