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The Pulse That Betrayed Me
Last Updated:
2025-08-31 13:52:03
Latest chapter
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
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy A Toilet Epiphany
EIGHT YEARS AGONight slipped softly over Capri, wrapping the villa in something that felt like the sea’s own breath. The wind carried the faint bite of rosemary from the garden, and from the dining room came the clink of glasses, too polished to belong to what should have been just dinner. The long oak table was set with candles and white porcelain plates.Winona sat beside me, biting into a roasted almond like she was plotting a crime. I chewed slowly, then without changing expression, flicked one at her.It landed squarely in her water glass.“Seriously?” she hissed, whipping her head toward me.I grinned. “Your throw this afternoon was pathetic. I’m saving your dignity.”She grabbed another and kicked me under the table. I grunted, jabbed her side with my elbow, then stabbed into my salad with unnecessary aggression.Across the table, Sheena was glued to Nicolas, as usual. Her body angled toward him, chin propped on her hand, expression tragic enough to win an Italian soap opera a
His Ex Mistress, His Enemy Collateral Gelato
EIGHT YEARS AGOMy internal clock usually only works for emergencies: exams, major sales, or the sudden urge to escape human interaction.But this morning... I was quiet. No comebacks. No teasing. No telling Zane Romano to find the nearest hole and fall into it.Maybe because he kept talking. About how Capri was once a Roman emperor’s hideaway, about the legend of the Blue Island said to heal broken hearts, about the Faraglioni cliffs rising from the sea like the chest of an overconfident Italian man.Or maybe because he bought me lemon-rosemary gelato without asking. And then a slice of torta caprese, insisting it was “mandatory if you want your life to make sense.”He walked me down Via Camerelle, the shopping street lined with designer stores, but Zane didn’t even glance at the fancy displays. Instead, he pointed to an old leather workshop and went on about the craftsman inside, claiming the man could guess your waist size just by watching you walk.When we finally sat on a big roc
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