005 - The Stranger's Apartment

SCARLETT

I woke up alone.

The bed felt too big, the sheets cold on Ethan's side. Sunlight sliced through the curtains in sharp lines across the floor. I stared at the empty pillow for a long moment, waiting for the familiar pang of confusion or hurt.

It didn't come.

This wasn't new. Ethan had always slipped out early—before dawn most days—leaving me to wake up to silence and the faint smell of his cologne.

I'd spent years wondering why he never kissed me goodbye, never woke me with coffee, never said "I love you" before he left for the office.

I'd told myself it was his schedule, his stress, his way of loving quietly.

Now I knew better.

After last night—the slap, the agreement, the sight of him with Lila in that dim room—I didn't wonder anymore. I didn't care.

The house felt different. Colder. The air thicker, like it was pressing down on me. Every room echoed with memories I didn't want.

The kitchen where he'd threatened my mother's life. The bedroom where he'd hit me for the first time. The hallway where I'd packed that small suitcase in secret.

I dragged myself out of bed, showered quickly, and dressed in simple jeans and a soft sweater. Nothing fancy. Nothing for him.

Downstairs, the maid had already set breakfast on the dining table—fresh fruit, yogurt, coffee, toast. Everything arranged perfectly, like always.

I sat. Picked at a strawberry.

"Has Mr. Reed eaten?" I asked quietly.

The maid shook her head. "He left early, ma'am. Said he had meetings. He asked me to make sure you had breakfast."

She left the room without another word.

I stared at the plate. Appetite gone.

My phone buzzed.

Ethan.

I answered on the third ring.

"Morning," he said, voice smooth, cheerful, like we hadn't screamed at each other last night. Like he hadn't slapped me. Like none of it happened.

I stayed silent.

"You okay?" he continued, playing the caring husband perfectly.

"I know last night was rough. My parents called. They want us for dinner tonight. Seven sharp. Dress nice. Mom's been asking about you."

No apology. No mention of the bruise on my cheek. No regret.

I gripped the phone tighter. "Okay."

"Good. I'll pick you up at six. Love you."

He hung up.

I set the phone down slowly. My hand shook.

Love you.

The words tasted like poison now.

I opened my messages and found the thread from last night.

Ryder's reply still glowed on the screen.

I typed before I could overthink it.

"Can't do dinner tonight. Family obligation. Sorry."

His answer came fast.

"Not the type to give up that easily. Come to my place this afternoon instead. 2 pm. No pressure. Just talk."

I stared at the message.

My thumb hovered.

Part of me screamed to delete it.

The other part—the part still stinging from Ethan's hand, still raw from what I'd seen in that hallway—wanted out.

Wanted anything that didn't feel like chains.

I replied.

"Okay. Send the address."

He did.

I spent the morning pacing. Showering again. Changing clothes twice. Telling myself this was stupid. Dangerous. Wrong.

But the hurt kept pushing me forward.

At 1:45 I called a car. Told the driver the address. Sat in the back seat with my heart in my throat the whole way.

His building was modern, glass and steel, quiet lobby. I rode the elevator to the tenth floor, stomach in knots.

I rang the doorbell once. Twice.

The door opened.

Ryder stood there in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, barefoot, hair damp like he'd just showered. He smiled—small, warm, real.

"Hey," he said. "You came."

I nodded, throat tight.

"Come in."

I stepped inside.

The apartment was bright, open, clean. Floor-to-ceiling windows. White sofa. One bookshelf. One plant. Nothing extra.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the sofa.

I sat on the edge, hands clasped in my lap.

He sat across from me in the armchair. Leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Watching me gently.

"I'm sorry," I said suddenly.

His brows lifted. "For?"

"Last night. Kissing you like that. Using you to make my husband jealous. I shouldn't have—"

He shook his head. "You didn't use me. You needed something. I gave it. No regrets."

I looked down. "I've never kissed anyone else. Ethan was my first. My only. And now…"

The words stuck.

Ryder waited.

"Now he's sleeping with other people, I guess," I finished quietly.

"He wants me to do the same. He slapped me last night because I kissed you in front of people. He said it embarrassed him."

Ryder's eyes darkened—just a flash.

"He hit you?"

I touched my cheek automatically. The bruise was faint now, covered with concealer, but still tender.

"Yeah."

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"I'm sorry," I whispered again.

"Stop apologizing," he said softly. "None of this is your fault."

I met his eyes. "Oh yeah, I don't know your name, what's your name? For real."

"Ryder."

I nodded. "Ryder."

He smiled faintly. "You can call me callboy if it makes you feel better."

The word hung between us—playful, but edged.

I almost laughed. Almost.

"I feel wrong being here," I admitted. "Like I'm betraying… something."

"You're not," he said simply.

I stood up suddenly. "I should go. I'm sorry."

He rose too. Faster. Gentle hand on my wrist—not grabbing. Just enough to stop me.

"Wait."

I froze.

He stepped closer. Close enough I could smell his clean skin, feel his warmth.

"If you can't do it," he said quietly, echoing my panic from last night, "let me do it for you."

Then he kissed me.

Slow.

Soft at first.

His lips brushed mine—testing, careful.

I froze.

Then something inside me cracked open.

I kissed him back.

My hands found his shirt. Gripped tight.

He deepened the kiss—still gentle, but sure. One hand slid to my waist. The other cupped my face, thumb brushing the bruised spot on my cheek so lightly it almost didn't hurt.

I made a small sound.

He pulled back just enough. "Still okay?"

I nodded.

He kissed them away—soft presses on my eyelids, my cheeks.

"You're safe here," he murmured.

I believed him.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

He lifted me easily. My legs went around his waist.

He carried me to the sofa. Sat. Settled me in his lap.

I straddled him. Dress riding up. Heart racing.

His hands stayed on my hips—steady. Not pushing.

I kissed him again. Deeper. Hungrier.

He groaned low in his throat.

My fingers slid into his hair.

His hands moved up my back—slow circles, soothing.

I felt wanted.

Seen.

Not owned.

Not tolerated.

Wanted.

I pulled back. Breathing hard.

"This is crazy," I whispered.

"Yeah."

"I'm married."

"Not in any way that counts."

"I don't know what I'm doing," I said.

"Then let me show you."

He kissed me again—slow, thorough, endless.

And in that moment, with a stranger's arms around me and my husband's cruelty still fresh on my skin, I let myself feel something new.