CHAPTER 2: The Stranger's Touch

After walking out of the house, Monica had no idea where to go. Her feet just moved, carrying her away from the place that didn’t feel like home anymore.

The image of Liam and Brie, tangled together on her bed, burned behind her eyes. No matter how hard she blinked, it wouldn’t go away. So she ended up at a bar, hoping the noise and the alcohol might shut her brain off.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. The music was loud, but it felt far away—like it belonged to another world. A world where her life hadn’t just fallen apart.

Tears kept falling, but she didn’t wipe them. What was the point?

Her husband and sister were still at the house when she left. They didn’t even try to hide it. Didn’t even pretend to be sorry.

She picked up another shot glass and threw it back. The alcohol burned her throat, but she didn’t even flinch. That pain was easy. It was the one in her chest that hurt the most.

She stared into the bottom of the glass like it might tell her what to do next. It didn’t.

She used to dream of Liam holding their baby. Waking up next to him. Laughing with him while making pancakes on Sunday mornings.

Now all she could see was him in bed—with her sister.

Brie.

Her baby sister.

The thought made her stomach curl. She let out a broken laugh, but it turned into a sob before it could even finish.

Her glass was empty again. Of course it was.

She waved at the bartender with a clumsy hand. He didn’t say anything. Just poured.

She was starting to feel it now—the world getting soft and fuzzy around the edges. Her heart, though, was still sharp and bleeding.

She didn’t want to feel it anymore. Just wanted to drown in the burning taste of the drink and she welcomed the pain. It was better than the ache Liam left in her heart.

She noticed her glass was empty again and frowned. With a slurred shout, she waved at the bartender, who quickly refilled it. The alcohol was starting to mess with her head. Everything felt distant.

“Are you alright?”

A husky, seductive voice slid into her ears, making her shiver.

Monica groaned, a splitting headache tearing through her skull. She turned and glanced at the man behind her. Her breath caught. Even in her drunk state, she was stunned by the breathtaking man.

He was gorgeous. Blonde hair slicked back with effortless precision. Tailored clothes that screamed luxury. Gray eyes that held a strange mix of warmth and mystery.

He looked familiar, but she was too drunk to place him.

“Are you alright?” he repeated, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

Something so simple made her eyes stay fixed on those veiny hands.

His touch startled her. She blinked, shook her head, and turned her gaze away, murmuring, “Do you need something?” before facing her drink again.

The man slid into the empty seat beside her.

“Don’t you remember me, Monica?” he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

His scent filled the small space, and she couldn’t help but breathe in his cologne.

As her eyes met his, the way he asked the question felt painful, even with the smile.

"Do I have to?" she whispered, turning away.

“Sad,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I heard your husband cheated on you. With your sister.”

Her head snapped toward him. “How do you know that?”

It had only just happened. How could he possibly know? Unless he was sent.

She reached for her purse and staggered to her feet. He tried to steady her, but she flinched away. She needed to get away.

“Did Brie send you? Where’s your camera? Trying to publish this and blame it on me?” she spat as the dizziness set in.

She didn’t notice the flicker of hurt in his eyes. Or the way his fingers trembled when her bare thigh brushed against his hand. Or even how he held his breath when his eyes drifted to her butt.

“I would never hurt you, Monica,” he whispered.

Her eyes flicked to his, and for a moment, she froze. Then she laughed—bitter, sad.

“Funny. My husband said the same thing.”

She gasped. “He didn’t. It was all in my head—the affection, the attention. He actually fucked my sister and got her pregnant.”

With unsteady steps, she staggered toward the exit.

The man followed closely behind.

Outside, Monica stumbled toward the road.

He caught her before she hit the ground.

“Aren’t I beautiful enough?”

Her voice cracked. Tears slid down her flushed cheeks, her gaze glassy and locked on his, like his words could fix everything, but he couldn't reply.

The words hit him like a punch. His eyes dipped. Her dress had ridden high—too high—revealing skin so smooth it made his mouth dry. He looked away, jaw tight, heart pounding.

She leaned in, breath laced with alcohol and heartbreak.

“Even you think I’m not beautiful,” she murmured with a broken laugh, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

“I was the number one model,” she slurred, swaying slightly as she pointed a shaky finger at him.

“How can I not be beautiful?”

Her voice cracked near the end, like something inside her was splintering.

She blinked at him, eyes glossy.

“I thought I was sexy...” Her lips curled into a pout, but it was sad, broken.

“But I was just lying to myself, wasn’t I?”

She looked down at herself, almost like seeing her body for the first time.

He reached for her, his fingers brushing her bare shoulder. “Don’t say that,” he said, his voice rough. “You are…” His throat closed.“Monica, you need to go home.”

She was too close. Her warmth seeped into him. His pulse thundered.

Her body was pressed against his, soft curves unmissable, her scent sweet and maddening.

He clenched his jaw, forcing his hands to stay still.

“Do I even have a home anymore?” she laughed again, the sound hollow. “I’m getting a divorce.”

Her knees buckled. She swayed—and he caught her.

Her body folded into his arms. Her skin brushed his neck.

His hands gripped her tighter than necessary.

God, don’t do this, he glanced down at his pants. But he didn’t let go.

For a moment, he just looked at her. Then without a word, he picked her up, grabbed her shoes and keys, and walked to his car.

As he drove, his grip on the steering wheel tightened. He had heard the maids talking—but he didn’t know things were this bad.

He never understood what Monica saw in Liam.

The house was quiet when he got there. He carried her in, her body soft and still in his arms.

He laid her gently on the bed.

She moved.

Her arms wrapped— wrapped around his neck. Gray eyes met hers, and he shivered.

“Am I not attractive enough?” she whispered.

“You’re drunk,” he said, trying to pull away.

She wouldn’t let go. “Do you find me attractive?” Her lips hovered inches from his.

“Monica, go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow."

But she yanked him down, lips crashing into his. There was no hesitation—just heat. It was sudden—and it broke his control. He grabbed the back of her head and kissed her deeper. Her lips were soft, hungry.

His mouth moved to her neck. She moaned, fingers twisting in his hair.

“I didn’t know you were wild, Monica,” he whispered, his breath hot on her skin.

She gasped as his lips trailed lower, brushing along her collarbone. Her hands slid under his shirt, feeling the hard lines of his back.

He groaned softly, pressing his body against hers. “Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough, but he didn’t move away.

She kissed his chest, then his nipples. His breath caught, and his control snapped completely.

Her fingers trailed lower, brushing his skin, teasing the edge of his pants.

He groaned, hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer until their bodies touched, hot and aching.

“Monica…” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “I’m hard. So hard for you.”

She slid her hand between them. “Touch me, Liam,” she breathed.

He froze.

The name hit like ice.

She wasn’t seeing him. Her mind was on Liam.

His jaw tightened. Her hands moved to his waistband, but he caught her wrists and pushed her gently back.

“We’ll talk tomorrow. When you’re sober.”