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2025-08-21 17:03:18
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His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Shaky Sanity
FLASHBACKThe music slowed, as if every instrument in the room suddenly recognized who stood at the center. The chandelier overhead threw a warm shimmer across Zane’s hair, and his eyes, blue like the calm surface of a deep ocean, glittered with danger disguised as beauty.His left hand still held mine. But his right…his right was on my waist. Warm. Too comfortable. Too right. And far too wrong. Because my body, the one that usually couldn’t care less about anyone’s touch, went rigid, every nerve stringing tight like thin wire being pulled to the breaking point.“Could you… step back a little?” I whispered, brow arched.Zane didn’t answer. He only leaned in, just enough to knock my breath off rhythm.“Relax,” he murmured, his voice threading through my head like a spell.I wanted to snap back, to arm myself with sarcasm the way I always did. But my body wasn’t listening to my brain. Not when his gaze locked on me, burning hot enough to freeze blood in my veins. Okay, that didn’t even
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy One Smooth Pull
FLASHBACKWithout a word, I drove my fist into Zane’s stomach. Right under the ribs on his right side. Not hard enough to make him flinch in pain, but enough to wrinkle his expensive suit and cut his breath for a split second.He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was low and warm, more threat than amusement. His hand stayed on the back of my chair like what just happened belonged in some kind of intellectual foreplay.I turned back to my risotto, blocking out everything that wasn’t golden and butter-scented.Leon, who had been the loudest voice at the table earlier, suddenly dropped a note. “So, Zane, you’re still living in Monte Carlo?”“No. For now I’m back in Capri.” Zane lifted his wine glass casually. “My family needed someone to sit still in the middle of a renovation disaster.”Sheena tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling like she’d lick the rim of her glass if it made her look coy. “And you’re the definition of sitting still, huh?”Zane glanced her way, his eyes narrowing
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Risotto & Trouble
The room was still dim when I opened my eyes. The sky outside the round window had deepened, the sea turning into a smear of dark ink-purple. Salt, peppermint oil, and the faint aftertaste of death from my stomach still lingered in the air. I blinked slowly, stretching with the faint groan of a retired mafia grandmother.Across the room, Sheena sat cross-legged on her bed, damp hair spilling over her shoulders, staring at her phone with a tragic expression. “God, dinner tonight is semi-formal. Which means every guest has to show up. Including you, shipwreck zombie.”“I just came back to life five minutes ago,” I rasped. “Give me time to mourn.”Winona rose from the sofa, stretching like a cat. “We all napped too. Three hours of swimming and two rounds of jet skiing with the socialite moms fried half my nervous system.”I pulled my knees up and sat. The world had stopped spinning. Just a faint wobble now. Probably hunger. Or trauma from throwing up in front of the most beautiful man I’
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Not the Meet-Cute I Imagined
I didn’t answer. Because right then, my stomach decided that lemon, peppermint oil, and Zane Romano were not a combination worth keeping in my digestive system.I tapped his thigh twice.Zane turned immediately, one brow lifting. Then he understood.“Oh,” he murmured.His hand slipped to the clear plastic bag tucked by the seat, and he handed it to me without fuss, without awkwardness. Like it was routine. Like I wasn’t about to star in a low-budget horror movie about stomach flu.The second the bag was in my hand, my body folded over, and everything came out.Lemon. My pasta lunch. My dignity.Zane didn’t move away. He didn’t panic with a useless “Are you okay?” like any normal man might. Instead, he shifted closer. His left hand swept up my hair, pulling it back in one swift motion with the band from his wrist. His right hand, somehow already near, pressed lightly against the side of my neck, thumb finding that pressure point beneath my ear. Firm.Rhythmic. Calming.If I hadn’t been
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy The Seventh Circle of Sea-Hell
EIGHT YEARS AGOI opened my eyes slowly, and the world still looked like an impressionist painting shaken by a hyperactive toddler. Afternoon light poured through the round window, spilling honey-colored warmth across the room, but not nearly enough to make me rise without wanting to vomit out half my soul.My head was heavy, though at least I no longer felt like hurling my organs overboard.Sheena burst in like a tiny, overconfident storm, wearing a blinding satin robe and sunglasses as if she were the guest star in a 2000s music video. “You alive?” she asked lightly, as if I hadn’t just gone through my own private maritime tragedy.“I think so. Although my kidneys are still undecided.”She sighed dramatically, then grabbed my arm. “Come on. Lunch. I’m bored eating alone. Winona is still busy gossiping with some guest who used to date an actress in Hollywood.”“I just recently regained consciousness. Can we wait… three decades?”“You need rice or bread or whatever will get your blood
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Two Days to Die Pretty
EIGHT YEARS AGOOf course the harbor wasn’t just any harbor. This was Capri. The place where the rich dock their sins and egos, then wrap it up with a bow and call it “vacation.” The yacht in front of us stretched as long as a politician’s ego and gleamed as white as malice dressed in silk.I trailed a few steps behind Sheena and Winona, who were already snapping a storm of selfies with the boat as their backdrop. Their summer dresses fluttered, their laughter pitched high, and the constant click of phone cameras felt like their personal soundtrack.I dragged my carry-on in silence.A butler in linen and sunglasses led us up the gangway with a thin, expensive-looking smile. A handful of other guests followed close behind, each one resembling the offspring of some fitness deity on holiday. Bronze bodies, gauzy linen shirts, sunglasses that probably cost more than my yearly rent.“This isn’t a boat. It’s a seven-star hotel that just happens to float,” I muttered, side-eyeing the marble
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