Ruining my cheating ex husband’s life

Isla The slap cracks across my cheek like a gunshot. "Isla." Another strike. My vision swims as I force my eyes open. Fluorescent lights stab into my skull. My mouth tastes like copper. Alex crouches over me, his fingers patting my face—fake concern dripping from every touch. His other hand holds a whiskey glass, the ice untouched. Waiting. Like he wanted me conscious for his victory toast. Jane's voice cuts through the buzzing in my ears: "Drama queen." I swallow bile. The nausea clings, but I shove it down. Focus. Marble floor cold against my bare legs. Nails digging half-moons into my palms. Alex finally takes that sip, savoring it. "Fainting? Really?" His thumb swipes my lower lip, smearing blood. "Pathetic." Good. Let him think I’m weak. I let my hands shake as I push upright. "Haven’t… been eating since—" My voice breaks just right. Jane rolls her eyes so hard I hear it. "Christ, you’re insufferable." My

Isla Rolin's voice was too calm, the kind of calm that comes right before a storm. "Alex nearly pulled it off. Covered his tracks like a pro." He tapped the file. "But Nana's death never sat right with me." My hands clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms. "What did you find?" That calculating look in his eyes sharpened. "Nana's will stated the company and properties would only transfer to you after you and Alex had a child together." A pause that made my stomach drop. "If she died before that happened... everything went to both of you." The room tilted. Suddenly all those late-night "business meetings" where Alex had begged for a baby made sickening sense. Not love. Not family. Just cold, hard greed. Rolin stood abruptly, pacing like a caged panther. When he spoke again, each word landed like a hammer blow. "Every time that bastard visited Nana in the hospital, he was slipping mercury into her IV. Slow poisoning. Paid off the medical staff to

Isla Rolin's mouth curves into that infuriating smirk. "Why?" he asks, voice dripping with amusement. "You wanna dance with me?" I don't grace that with a response. Instead, I move to the vintage record player in the corner, fingers skipping through vinyl sleeves until I find the one I want. The familiar crackle fills the room as the needle drops, and then it starts - that slow, aching waltz we both know too well. When I turn back, my hand is already extended toward him. He doesn't make me wait. Rolin's palm meets mine, but instead of a polite hold, he yanks me forward until I'm pressed against him. My breath hitches. That stupid cologne of his - all bergamot and something darker - wraps around me like a trap. His lips brush my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Still living up to your name, Butterfly?" I don't answer. Just let the music take over. Our bodies remember this dance better than our minds do. We move together like we never stopped, like no

Trigger warning: Violence Isla The study was bathed in golden afternoon light, those last stubborn rays clinging to the hardwood floors. That heavy kind of quiet where you can hear the clock ticking. I was curled up in Rolin's stupidly expensive leather chair - the one he never lets anyone sit in - fingers flying across the keyboard. Converting paper trails to digital ghosts, wrapping each file in so many encryption layers even the NSA would get a headache trying to crack it. When I finally snapped the laptop shut, the silence felt louder than before. The burner phone sat waiting. Rolin had slid it to me at breakfast without a word, just that infuriating smirk of his. He gets it - sometimes I don't need pep talks, I need ammunition. The cheap plastic felt light in my hands as it blinked to life. First order of business: adding Jane's number, saved under a sickening string of heart emojis and that two-faced mask. My mouth twisted into something that wasn't

Isla The day dragged on in quiet solitude. I drifted between rooms—our bedroom, the study, my little sanctuary—enjoying the rare peace. Maybe a little too much peace. Then dinner happened. The chef had outdone himself. The table looked like something from a magazine, the air rich with roasted herbs and seared meat. Could've been nice. Should've been nice. We took our seats—Rolin, his icy mother Lilian, that brat Rachel, and me. Rachel wasted no time. "So," she sneered, twirling her fork like a weapon, "what exactly do you do all day? Besides mooch off my brother?" The words hung there, ugly and deliberate. I just stared. Let her dig her own grave. The room went arctic. Rolin didn't even look at Rachel. His gaze locked onto Lilian, voice deceptively smooth. "Her mother's dead. You married her father for the title. Least you could do is teach her some manners." Lilian's face flushed scarlet. She grabbed Rachel's wrist. "That's enough."