(Demi’s POV)The divorce papers were glaring back at me from the mahogany table like some sort of a nasty reminder of my shortcomings as housewife. My trembling fingers brushed over the ink where my husband, Jeff Ortega’s, signature glared at me, bold and resolute. His decision was final, and it was unyielding just as the man himself.However, Jeff was standing in front of the window even as I turn and witnessed how the soft afternoon light shining on his erect figure. His eyes were as cold and far away as before, and his sharp facial features were etched with resolve. The distance between us was heightened by his coldness, even with his back facing my direction. “I’ve already signed the papers. You should hurry and sign them too,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. “I want everything finalized before Stella returns.”Stella. The name cut through me like a blade. My throat tightened as I fought back tears.Jeff didn’t even glance in my direction. “We’ve agreed on the partition of
Jeff’s POVThe moment I stepped out the manor and into my car, I felt overjoyed. For some reason, i couldn't control the excitement building within me as I drove to the airport. Within my head it scream so loud that at last, my first love, Stella Magno, was returning from Italy.My desire for her continued to spring even stronger over the years. I had always believe that our temporary separation was just for a while and that a time would be available for us to be together again—and that time is now. As for Demi? She was a mistake. A fleeting obligation forced upon me by my father’s incessant demands. Marrying her had been a sacrifice for me and as well as the Ortega family’s image, nothing more. I’ve endured so much as I’d given her the required five years, but now, I was free. And I would claim back the lost years I should have spend with Stella.As I pulled the car at the airport, I quickly spotted Stella waiving her hand. She was radiant, her delicate physique and warm smile was
DEMI's POVThe Hermosa Villa, a majestic estate that had always seemed more like a museum than a house, towered over me. Under me, the black Camaro's engine hummed as it moved effortlessly up the driveway. As Brent walked forward with a sneer already on his lips, I looked out the tinted window. As soon as the car halted, he swung the door open with his usual dramatic flair.“Welcome back, princess!” he said, extending a hand toward me.My heels clicked on the sidewalk as I stepped outside, a sharp contrast to the sneakers I had been wearing before. I had changed in the car, swapping comfort for elegance, stepping into the role everyone expected of me. In the warm light of the villa's entrance lights, I was certain that I looked like the queen I had taught myself to be."Brent, how have things been going while I was away?" I asked, arching an eyebrow at him.“Better now that you’re back,” he replied smoothly. “Did you enjoy the fireworks? My birthday gift to you attracted the whole ci
CHAPTER 4The murmurs in the hallway reached my ears before I even stepped inside the building."I heard the new chairman is a young woman.""The acting chairman is being replaced? By a woman? That’s insane!""The last four general managers failed to turn this company around. What makes her any different?""I heard she’s Mr. Perez’s daughter…""Chairman Perez has many wives. She must be an illegitimate child sent here to clean up his mess."I chuckled under my breath. People never failed to amuse me."She’s here! The new boss is here!"A sleek Porsche rolled to a stop at the entrance, followed by a procession of Ferraris. The air was thick with curiosity as all eyes turned toward the arrival. When the car door opened, a pair of black high-heeled shoes with red soles touched the ground first. Then, I stepped out.The murmurs stopped.My long, dark hair hung down over my shoulders as I stood tall. I selected a navy blue power suit because it was expertly tailored and perfectly fit my cu
They always talked behind my back."How dare they say that! You're the Perez family's only daughter, and the daughter of the first wife, the one and only legitimate heiress. Are they out of their minds?" Sabrina fumed beside me, her hands clenched into fists.I sighed, barely looking up from the glass of wine I had been swirling absentmindedly. "Come on. That mindset is old-fashioned. Who cares about whether I’m the first wife's daughter? I don’t care, so why should you bother?"Sabrina blinked at me, her cheeks puffing slightly with frustration, which only made her look cuter. Unable to resist, I reached out and pinched her face gently. Her skin was soft beneath my fingers, and immediately, her face flushed a deep red."Demi!" Brent groaned from across the room, shaking his head. "You're the future president of Hermosa Group. Can you at least act with dignity? Stop teasing Sabrina."I chuckled, releasing my secretary. "What’s the matter? Big bosses are allowed to tease their secretar
The phone continued to ring, the sound piercing through the silence in my office. My fingers twitched, but I clenched them into a fist, refusing to let old habits take over. I wouldn’t answer. Not yet.Brent arched an eyebrow. “You sure? He’s persistent.”“He can keep waiting.” I turned to Sabrina, who was shifting nervously by the door. “Tell me everything about Adam Ortega’s condition.”Sabrina cleared her throat, pulling out her tablet. “He was admitted early this morning. Another stroke, but not as severe as the last one. The doctors say he stabilized after emergency treatment, but he’s still under observation.”I drummed my fingers on my desk, thinking. Adam Ortega had been a formidable businessman in his prime, but age had worn him down. And yet, I couldn’t ignore the unease settling in my stomach. The Ortega family had been quiet for too long.“Has Jeff been seen at the hospital yet?”Sabrina nodded. “Yes. He arrived about an hour ago. He hasn’t left the VIP ward since.”I scof
Jeff Ortega had waited long enough.It had been over five years since we first met, five years since I last saved his life, and exactly five days since he first tried to call me today. few hours of my unwavering silence.And now, he had finally lost his patience.I heard him before I saw him—the hurried footsteps, the clipped conversation with Brent at the door, the tension in Sabrina’s stance as she turned to me in warning. But I didn’t need her to say anything. I already knew what was coming.“Demi,” Jeff’s voice rang out, firm but laced with something dangerously close to desperation. “We need to talk.”Slowly, I looked up from my desk. The sight of him sent a familiar pang through my chest—an echo of something I had long buried. He looked the same, yet different. The years had carved sharper lines into his face, his once-boyish charm hardened by experience. But his eyes? Those dark, piercing eyes still carried the same fire, the same intensity that once had the power to make my he
The moment Jeff left, something unexpected stirred inside me.Curiosity.I hated it. Hated that even after everything, I still cared enough to wonder. But Jeff had mentioned his father, and despite everything that had happened, Adam Ortega had never been the enemy. If anything, he had been the only light in my past with the Ortegas.I turned to Sabrina. "Find out which room Adam Ortega is in. Now."Sabrina hesitated for only a moment before nodding and stepping away. Within minutes, she returned with the information. "He's in room 312. He was rushed in earlier—almost had a mild stroke."My stomach twisted. A stroke? Adam had always been a strong, stubborn man, but he wasn’t invincible. I couldn’t ignore this. Not when he had once treated me like his own daughter.Without another word, I made my way to his room.The beeping machines and sterile hospital air greeted me as I entered. Adam looked weaker than I had ever seen him, lying against the pillows with an IV in his arm. But his eye
Lucas’s silence didn’t last long.Within a week, The Guardian Art Forum published an open letter, signed by him, dripping with defiance.“I have made mistakes, but I have never fabricated genius. Jeff Langford was a star before I entered the room. And Demi Caddel? She’s not a whistleblower—she’s an opportunist rewriting history to fit her redemption arc.”He went on to claim Jeff begged for investment, and that I was a “media manipulator” with a long-standing vendetta against the establishment that once rejected me.It was pathetic.But it was loud.“He’s trying to twist the narrative,” Jeff said, voice flat as he stared at the screen. “And some people believe him.”We’d hoped exposing him would be enough.It wasn’t.Lucas was using every ounce of influence he had left to spin the story, muddy the facts, and raise doubt. And worst of all, he was targeting Jeff's upcoming solo show—his first since the scandal broke.Anonymous critics began whispering.That the new exhibit was rushed.T
It started with a ping from my editor.“Need to talk. URGENT.”Not the kind of message you want to wake up to at 7:04 a.m.Jeff was still asleep beside me, his face relaxed in a way I rarely saw when he was awake. I didn’t want to disturb him, but the pit in my stomach was already forming.I slipped out of bed, padded to the kitchen, and called.“Demi,” my editor said without even saying hello, “Did you see the blog post on Watchdog Weekly?”“No. Why?”“There’s a story trending about a certain journalist who once falsified sources, got named in a hush settlement, and conveniently reinvented herself through dating a famous artist. Sound familiar?”My heart dropped.No names.But too many details to be coincidence.“Jesus,” I muttered. “They can’t prove anything—”“They don’t have to,” she cut in. “The court settlement alone is enough. I know you’ve always been honest with me, and you’ve worked hard to rebuild, but Demi, this is going viral. The trolls are already in our inbox. What do
Three days after we visited Jeff’s mother, things were quiet again.Too quiet. there was an anwkward silence for the next few moments.Which should’ve been my first clue that something was about to blow.I was sitting at my desk, half-heartedly editing a draft for a new travel article that I didn’t even want to publish, when my phone buzzed.Unknown Number.I ignored it and tried to focus back. however, before I could even focus back, it buzzed again.This time, a text followed that shocked me down to the core that I didn't expect."Saw your name in that article about Jeff Grayson. Still dramatic as ever, D."I froze.D.Only three people had ever called me that. One of them was Jeff. The second was my college roommate, June, who now lived off the grid in a yurt in Oregon.And the third was someone I hadn’t spoken to in four years.Someone who knew every bad decision I ever made before I tried to reinvent myself.Someone who could, with a single whisper, undo everything I’d rebuilt.L
Two days.That’s how long it had been since the cabin.Since Jeff told me what he saw when he pictured five years into the future.Since I let myself say, out loud, that I wanted it too.And it had been… calm.Suspiciously calm.No chaos. No dramatic exes. No cryptic messages. Just me, a half-eaten loaf of banana bread, and a work deadline that kept getting extended because my editor “felt the universe was off this week.”I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.It started with a knock.Three sharp raps at the door. Not a delivery driver, not the soft tap of a neighbor.It was the kind of knock that said: Something’s coming, whether you like it or not.I wiped my hands on a towel and opened the door.She stood there in a trench coat soaked through at the hem, heels mud-spattered, eyes hidden behind thick sunglasses despite the overcast sky.“Are you Demi?”“I—yes?”She pulled off the glasses.And I nearly dropped the towel.“Hi,” she said in a voice I recognized from Jeff’s voicemail once.
It was raining again.Not the soft, romantic kind of rain. The soak you through your bones, make you late to everything, gray-for-days kind.Jeff hated the rain.Which was why I was surprised when I got a text that afternoon:"Be ready in 15. Wear something you can get muddy in."I stared at the message like it had come from an alien.Then again, Jeff had been… different lately.Softer.Less guarded.Like he was trying. Really trying.So, I tugged on my oldest jeans, shoved my hair into a messy braid, and waited.Fifteen minutes later, his truck pulled up, tires hissing against the wet pavement. I ran out, ducking into the passenger seat with a yelp as a sheet of rain chased me inside.“You look like a drowned cat,” he said with a grin.“You look like someone who’s about to explain what we’re doing driving into a storm.”He just handed me a thermos of coffee and said, “Trust me.”We drove for over an hour. Through back roads and winding trails that made my stomach flip. The farther we
It had been two days since the photo.Two days since the box. Since the kiss. Since we sat in the middle of his living room floor, surrounded by scraps of his past, and decided—quietly, stubbornly—that we were worth salvaging.And for a little while, it felt like we were okay.Better than okay, even.He made coffee just the way I liked it. I left a playlist on repeat that I knew he secretly loved but pretended to hate. He kissed the side of my neck when he thought I was asleep. I pretended not to notice, because pretending was easier than admitting I still melted when he did that.But under it all, something buzzed.Something unsaid.A wordless ache living in the spaces between our sentences.That’s the thing about relationships—we talk about the fights, the makeup sex, the milestones. But no one talks about maintenance. No one talks about how hard it is to just keep showing up.And maybe we were showing up for each other now.But what if one of us stopped again?The unease really sta
The next few weeks were a dance of small things.Late night conversations. Little confessions. Fighting over what movie to watch. Laughing until my stomach hurt. Crying when the weight got too heavy and letting him hold me through it.It wasn’t perfect.Sometimes I still flinched.Sometimes he still said the wrong thing.But we were learning.Learning how to be us without pretending the past didn’t exist.Learning that love isn’t about erasing scars—it’s about tracing them with reverence.One night, months later, after too much wine and too much laughter, Jeff pulled me close and said against my hair:“I don’t want a clean slate with you, Demi. I want the messy one. The one with mistakes and lessons and a thousand second chances. I want the real thing.”I smiled, my heart aching with something fierce and beautiful.“You already have it,” I whispered back.And for the first time in what felt like forever, I knew it was true.Love wasn’t a single moment of forgiveness.It was a thousand
The evening air hit me like a slap the second I stepped out of Jeff’s condo.Sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.I kept walking, barely aware of the streets, the familiar cracks in the sidewalks, the faint hum of the city coming alive for the night. I walked because standing still meant feeling everything at once, and right now, that felt unbearable.The photo burned in my mind. Stella's hand in his. Her smile. His.Closure, he had said. But how many versions of closure could one person have before it stopped being closure and started being something else entirely?I found myself at the small park three blocks away without realizing it. I collapsed onto a bench, wrapping my arms around myself, willing the tightness in my chest to ease.It didn’t.Because this wasn’t just about a photograph.It was about the small cracks in the foundation we were trying to rebuild. Tiny fractures that, left ignored, would one day split wide open and swallow us whole.And God, I was so tired of trying to be the o
Around noon, I found a note taped to my computer monitor. Simple, clean handwriting. I didn’t need to ask who it was from."Dinner. Your place. 7PM. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me try. –J"I stared at it for a long time.It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand.It was... a hope.A quiet one. One I hadn’t earned yet. One I wasn’t sure I could accept.But when seven o’clock rolled around, I was home. I had lit candles. Put on soft music. Worn something that wasn’t just lounge clothes.And I waited.At 7:02, there was a knock.I opened the door, and there he was—holding a bag of takeout from my favorite Thai place, rain in his hair, uncertainty in his eyes.“Hi,” he said softly.“Hi,” I replied.He stepped inside, and we moved through the motions like a dance we hadn’t forgotten. Plates. Chopsticks. Steam curling from cartons. But the real heat in the room wasn’t from the food.It was the tension.I finally broke it.“Who was that message from?” I asked, voice even but my heart