7

FREYA

I’m done dressing up. I slip into the black dress—the one that hugs my body tightly.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom, far from the master suite. Mark’s cologne still lingers in the air there, and I hate that. That’s how much I despise him now.

The fabric stretches tight across my hips, dips low between my breasts, and ends high on my thighs. I haven’t worn it since the night I bought it two years ago—hopeful and stupid, waiting for Mark to look at me the way he used to. Or the way I thought he used to.

He never did.

Tonight the dress isn’t for him.

I smooth my palms down the sides, feeling the tremor in my fingers. I step back and study the woman in the mirror. I’ve always wanted to step out like this, but stupid me wanted to do it with my husband.

The same husband that has been secretly ashamed of me

Now, looking at myself, a sudden question crawls into my heart: Am I really out of shape?

My phone buzzes, snapping me out before the thought can spiral too far.

I rush to the dresser and grab it.

Mark:

Running late at the office. Luna’s already at Lila’s for movie night + pizza. You know she loves to be with her. Don’t wait up.

No “love you” this time.

Good.

I type one word.

Me:

Okay.

Then I delete the entire thread. I block his number. I don’t even know why—let’s call it anger. My thumb hovers over “Luna - My cutie” in contacts… but I can’t bring myself to block my own child.

Instead I text Rebecca:

Me:

I’m going out tonight. Luna’s with her dad. If anything changes, call me immediately.

Rebecca:

Understood ma’am. Be safe. ❤️

I exhale through my mouth like I’m blowing out birthday candles I never got to make wishes on.

The clock on the wall reads 7:12 p.m.

Forty-eight minutes until the gym door locks.

I slip on my only pair of heels—red, with thin ankle straps. I spray the perfume I stopped wearing because Mark once said it gave him a headache.

I grab my keys, the matte black card, and leave through the side door so the security lights won’t catch my silhouette slipping away like a guilty teenager.

I drive following the address on the card. After a short drive, State-of-the-Art Gym sits on the corner of a newly developed strip. It’s not a big building—glass front, black steel accents, bright neon sign. A single motorcycle is parked diagonally across two spaces.

Of course it’s his.

I kill the engine and sit there, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white.

You can still leave, Freya. You still have a chance.

Just drive home. Cry in the shower. Pretend this morning never happened.

I’m still staring at the gym when Mark’s voice from this morning slices through again:

“Maybe if you worked on yourself.”

And Lila’s laugh from that sex video—sharp, victorious, unbothered.

I don’t know if it’s rage or something else, but it surges through me. I open the car door instantly. The night air smells like concrete cooling and distant rain.

The gym doors are unlocked.

Inside it’s darker than I expected—only emergency strips and a few overhead spots still on. Weights gleam under low light. Mirrors everywhere. The faint smell of rubber mats, metal, and sharp cologne.

No one at the front desk. Just the low hum of the air conditioner.

I’m still looking around when I hear boots—heavy, deliberate—coming from the hallway that leads to the offices.

The next second, Steve appears.

No gym shirt this time.

Just black joggers slung low on his hips and nothing else.

The tattoo sleeve on his left arm continues across his chest—one long thin line under his left pec, another across his lower ribs.

He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me.

Slowly.

His eyes travel from the red heels, up the black dress, past the cleavage I suddenly feel too exposed, over the curve of my stomach, and finally to my face.

A slow smirk curves his mouth. It feels almost mocking, but there’s something darker in it I can’t name.

“This doesn’t look like gym attire, princess.”

The words land like a spotlight in my ears. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I suddenly feel ridiculous—overdressed, overdone, like a woman playing pretend. What the hell was I thinking, showing up in heels and a tight dress like some desperate cliché?

I take a step back toward the door.

“I’m sorry, I should go,” I whisper, voice small. “This was a mistake. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

My hand reaches for the handle. My pulse hammers. I could still leave. Drive home, delete his number, pretend none of this happened.

“You look sexy.”

His voice stops me cold.

Sexy.

It hits my chest like a warm wave. When was the last time anyone called me that? Mark hadn’t said anything close in years—not before Luna, not after.

The only compliment he ever gave was “You look better.” Just… better.

I turn back to look at Steve. A single tear slips free, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it.

The instant he notices, his smirk vanishes. His expression darkens—that same feral protectiveness from this morning flashing across his face. He closes the distance in two strides—slow enough that I could back away, fast enough that I don’t want to.

I wipe the tear quickly, but another follows.

My vision blurs. Tears slip free, hot and fast, carving wet lines down my cheeks.

He stops just in front of me. Lifts his hand. His thumb catches the tear before it reaches my jaw.

“Is this a tear?” he murmurs, voice gravel and smoke.