Mistaken Night With my Ex-Husband

The legal document sitting on the bar top was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was better than a sunset in Santorini. It was better than a half-off sale at Chanel. It was my Decree Absolute.

I was officially no longer Mrs. Dominic Thorne. I was Sera Rossi again. I was a free woman with a heavy bank account and a very light conscience.

"Sera, stop staring at the paper and start drinking the tequila," my best friend, Jade, yelled over the bass of the club.

I picked up the shot glass. The salt burned. The lime stung. The liquid felt like a controlled demolition of my last three years of misery. Being married to Dominic was like being married to a very handsome, very expensive marble statue. He was perfect to look at. He was impossible to talk to. And he was absolutely freezing to the touch.

"To the ex-husband from hell," I toasted, slamming the glass down. "May he find a nice robot to spend the rest of his life with."

"I hear he’s already being scouted by the National Museum," Jade joked, leaning into me. "They need a new exhibit for 'Man with No Pulse.'"

I laughed, but the sound died in my throat. The air in the room suddenly shifted. It grew heavy. It grew cold. It grew expensive. I didn't even have to turn around to know he was there. Dominic had a way of colonizing the oxygen in any room he walked into.

I turned slowly, keeping my fake smile plastered on my face. There he was. Dominic Thorne. He was standing near the VIP entrance, looking like he’d just stepped off a yacht even though we were in the middle of a humid city night. His suit was charcoal gray. His hair was perfectly swept back. His eyes were that terrifying shade of amber that made you feel like you were being hunted by a jungle cat.

"Seraphina," he said.

He was the only person who used my full name. He said it like it was a chore. Like he was bored of the syllables.

"Dominic! You’re late for the funeral," I said, gesturing to the "Happy Divorce" banner hanging precariously over the bar. "We already buried our marriage. There’s some leftover cake if you want to eat your feelings. Oh wait, I forgot. You don't have those."

He stepped into my personal space. The scent of cedarwood and pure, unadulterated ego hit me like a physical wall. He didn't look at the party. He didn't look at Jade. He looked right at the smudge of lipstick on my chin.

"You’re making a spectacle of yourself," he said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "My PR team is already getting calls about the 'Rossi Rampage' at Neon Lights."

"It's not a rampage, Dom. It’s a celebration. And I’m not a Thorne anymore, remember? Your PR team can go play in traffic."

I reached for another shot, but his hand clamped down on my wrist. His skin was hot. It was always a shock how warm he was when his personality was a literal blizzard.

"You’ve had enough," he muttered.

"I’ve had enough of you," I snapped, trying to pull away. "I spent three years playing the quiet wife. I spent three years attending your boring galas and nodding at your boring friends and sleeping in your boring, giant bed. I’m done being bored, Dominic."

"You think this is what fun looks like?" He gestured to the sweaty bodies dancing around us. "Falling off a bar stool in a dress that's three inches too short?"

"It’s a great dress. Everyone says so."

"I didn't say it wasn't a great dress," he whispered, his gaze dropping to my legs for a split second. "I said it was too short."

The tension between us was a living thing. It was a wire stretched until it was ready to snap. I hated him. I hated how he controlled everything. I hated how he looked at me like I was a problem he couldn't quite solve.

"Go home, Dominic," I said, my voice losing its playful edge. "Go back to your office. Go count your money. Leave me to my 'spectacle.'"

"I’m not leaving you here like this."

"You don't get to decide where I stay anymore. We signed the papers."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "The papers are in my car, Seraphina. Technically, the court hasn't filed them. As of tonight, you are still my wife. And I’m taking my wife home."

I should have fought him. I should have called security. But the tequila was humming in my blood and the way he said "my wife" sent a traitorous shiver down my spine.

"Fine," I bit out. "Take me home. But if you think I'm sleeping on the couch, you're crazier than I thought."

He didn't say a word. He just gripped my waist and led me toward the exit. I didn't know it then, but that was the most expensive car ride of my life.