Terms & Conditions

Anna’s POV

I stumbled into what used to be home, kicking off my heels and collapsing onto the velvet sofa, still wrapped in my coat. My head was swimming from the champagne, but I was sober enough to deal with my ex-husband.

Jack stood in the kitchen doorway, brows furrowed. “Have you been drinking?”

I didn’t bother responding. Once, I would have craved that concern in his eyes. Now, it just seemed pathetic. Our divorce was final who was this performance for?

“What do you want? Just say it,” I said without looking at him, wanting this conversation over before it began.

I felt his gaze linger on my flawless makeup and smiled inwardly. Had he expected to find me wasting away after the divorce, instead of glowing with a confidence I’d sharpened like a blade?

“There are issues with the joint project between our companies that need your attention…” he said evenly, as if assigning a routine task.

I burst out laughing. “You want me to fix it? Are you delusional, Mr. Simpson?” My voice dripped with sarcasm. “Your girlfriend is the project manager. How appropriate would it be to have your ex-wife clean up her mess?”

The mention of her reopened the wound.

That project had been built on countless sleepless nights my team, my strategy, my vision. And he handed it over to his new flame with a single word. Just like that.

In that moment, I realized that all the love I’d poured into our marriage had been like water thrown into the ocean unseen, unnoticed, and swallowed whole.

“I have no obligation to help,” I said coldly, turning to leave.

But just then, the door opened and several strangers stepped inside, followed by a middle-aged couple dressed in designer labels.

Jack’s expression darkened. “Who are you? How do they have keys to my house?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” I said with a light smile. “They’re real estate agents. I’ve listed the house.”

He stared at me, stunned. “Anna, you’re selling our marital home?”

“What else?” I met his gaze with razor calm. “We’re divorced. Why would I keep a place that only reminds me of all my mistakes?”

The words rolled off my tongue like silk, but inside, exhaustion tugged at my bones. This house had been filled with too many broken promises, too many nights spent waiting for a man who never really saw me.

“The new owners seem nice,” I added, nodding at the couple now inspecting the living room with sharp, investor eyes. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate all the renovations you never got around to doing.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” I cut him off. “And I did.”

I turned to leave, but paused at the door. “Oh, and Jack? About the Phoenix Project? Ask your darling Lucy to handle it.”

After I left, I called Rachel. “Take me to Goldenleaf Manor,” I said. “I’m not going back to the Shaw Estate tonight.”

I couldn’t face the look in my mother’s eyes. Not the pity, not the disappointment she tried so hard to hide.

When we arrived, the elderly butler greeted me warmly at the entrance. “Welcome back, Miss Annie.” He took my coat with gentle hands, his voice carrying a kind of care I hadn’t heard in a long time.

“I’m exhausted. Have someone come up for a massage,” I said as I climbed the stairs, slipping off my earrings and handing them to Rachel, who followed closely.

“Of course, Ms. Shaw. I’ll also have soup sent up,” she replied, accepting the jewelry with both hands.

Immersed in the warm bath, the tension began to melt from my limbs. The masseuse’s skilled hands kneaded at the tightness in my back until I nearly drifted off.

When her fingers brushed over the faint bruises and bite marks scattered across my skin, there was only a brief pause. She didn’t ask questions. This was why I preferred Goldenleaf Manor its staff knew what to notice and what to forget.

“Water temperature’s good?” she asked softly.

“Perfect,” I murmured, eyes closed.

Rachel returned carrying a tray of soup. “Ms. Shaw, shall I arrange your schedule for tomorrow?”

“Clear everything before noon,” I said, standing and wrapping a thick towel around my body. “I need to sleep in.”

Later, I settled into a plush chair, sighing as the masseuse worked on my shoulders. A quiet moan escaped when her thumbs dug into a particularly tight knot.

Then, my phone buzzed.

“Five-star review?”

The message flashed across my lock screen, unsigned, unexpected.

I frowned. “Five-star review?”

Suddenly, a face surfaced in my memory strong arms, dark eyes, and a clean-cut jawline.

“What was his name again? Sean…?” I asked.

“Sean Smith, Ms. Shaw. You also said you liked his name,” Rachel said.

“I did?” I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t remember.”

Last night had been a blur. Catherine Murphy had dragged me to Olympus Club to celebrate my divorce. They presented a lineup of gorgeous young men. I chose Sean barely out of college, polite, untouched by the world.

Later, drunk and reckless, I spent the night with him. No regrets.

Jack Simpson had burned all my illusions about love and loyalty. So why not take pleasure on my own terms?

“Rachel,” I said, stretching. “Contact Sean Smith tomorrow. Tell him I’m interested in retaining his services long-term. Full medical checkup required. And tell him to quit smoking.”

“Yes, Ms. Shaw,” she answered without blinking.

I leaned back with a smile.

Let the new terms begin.