02. Burning, shameless stare

Scarlett:

“Don’t irritate me, Stephen. Send the car over.”

My voice was clipped, steady only because I’d repeated this line at least fifty times in the past three months.

I paced the length of my living room, phone pressed to my ear. “We’ve been over this.”

The papers were signed. The marriage was dead. And of all the things I could’ve asked for — half the assets, alimony, his precious wine collection — I asked for the car.

And apparently, that was enough to start a war.

“Gianna likes the brand,” he said, as if that was a reasonable explanation.

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “So, you’re keeping it because your mistress likes the brand?”

“Stop acting like a child. You barely even drove it,” he replied, tone dripping with irritation

I stopped pacing. My grip tightened on the phone. “I barely used it because you made sure I didn’t!”

“For fuck’s sake—” he sighed, like I was the one exhausting him. “You’re being unreasonable.”

That was his favorite line. I could’ve told him the sky was blue and he’d still find a way to make me ‘unreasonable’.

“Unreasonable?” My voice pitched higher, a mix of fury and disbelief clawing up my throat. “I asked for one thing, Stephen. One. Thing. I didn’t touch your money. I didn’t touch your business. I didn’t even touch the house. I asked for the damn car.”

My jaw locked. My pulse pounded.

I knew exactly why he was doing this. Dragging it out, playing mind games, just so I'd give in and end up with nothing. That was what he wanted and I can bet on numerous occasions, he'd bragged to Gianna that he had me ‘handled’.

And me? I could let everything go but I wanted this car — this victory against him. I couldn't let him win even though it was already feeling like he had.

“I don’t give a fuck about what your toy likes, Stephen. Don’t push me into doing something out of the picture. I want the damn car in my garage before the week runs out!” I hung up before he could respond.

I dropped onto my couch with a heavy sigh, my hands in my hair.

The official divorce envelope sat on my coffee table like it was mocking me. Congratulations, Scarlett. You’re free — after three months of Stephen dragging me through the ugliest divorce possible. After three months of him doing all he could to leave me broken and with nothing.

I no longer had a job thanks to the “mentally ill” bomb he'd dropped in court and somehow, it reached my workplace. That had been his lowest blow yet — at least until today.

I'd resigned before they could ask me to.

I don't know how he did it but the rumors began making rounds. And it stuck, just enough to make people look at me differently while shaking their heads in pity for him, the doting husband for having stayed with me — a delusional woman — for that long.

That was weeks ago. Weeks of being jobless, weeks of feeling stuck in this apartment, weeks of him dragging me through hell over a vehicle, just to prove he could.

The slam of my front door yanked me from my spiral.

“Scar?”

Hera’s voice rang through the apartment, followed by the familiar clack of her heels on my hardwood floor.

I groaned. “Ever heard of a doorbell?”

She rounded the corner into the living room like, a black garment bag slung over her shoulder and a bottle of champagne in her hand. One look at me — bare feet, messy bun, drowning in my old sweatshirt — and she sighed dramatically.

“Oh, hell no. We are not doing this tonight.”

“I wasn’t aware we were doing anything tonight,” I muttered.

“You are now.” She dropped the champagne next to the divorce papers and glanced at them. “This is the official ‘you’re free’ packet?”

I nodded.

Her eyes softened for about two seconds before she clapped her hands. “Perfect. We’re celebrating. You, me, and a dress that will make Stephen choke on his mediocre dick if he ever sees you in it.”

“Tempting, but no. I just got off the phone with him,” I said, collapsing back into the couch. “Fighting over the car again.”

“The car?” Her tone sharpened instantly.

“Gianna wants it.”

Hera inhaled slowly, like she was suppressing the urge to commit assault. Which… she had actually done once — on Stephen, while screaming just how mentally ill she could be since he wanted to pull that card.

My best friend doesn't joke about me.

“Let me handle it,” she said, voice dangerous.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just—”

“It’s not fine. He’s jerking you around because he thinks he still can. I’ll call Robert first thing tomorrow. You’ll have that car in your garage by the end of the week.”

A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “You’re terrifying, attorney Rivers.”

“And you love me for it.” She clapped her hands once. “Now, enough about him. Get up. We’re going out.”

“I’m not...”

“Scarlett.” She crouched in front of me, gripping my knees. “You’ve been in here for weeks. You eat, sleep, and sulk. Sometimes you shower. I think.” She waved a hand in front of her nose dramatically as she stood.

I glared. “I shower.”

“Then you’re halfway there. Now get your ass up. You’re putting this on.” She shook the garment bag for emphasis.

“I’m not going to a club, Hera.”

“Yes, you are. Because if I have to look at that sweatshirt for another second, I’m setting it on fire. Now strip.”

____

Two hours later, I was on the dancefloor of one of Chicago’s most expensive clubs, a glass of drink in hand, clad in a skintight dress that barely let me breathe. It clung to my curves cruelly like sin, the hem skimming my thighs every time I moved.

The thrum of the bass pulsed up through the floor and into my skin, sliding through me until my heartbeat matched the rhythm. Lights flashed over the crowd — all heat, perfume, and bodies moving in sync.

I swayed with them, letting Hera’s laughter and the music drown out the last three months of hell. For a few seconds, I even forgot about Stephen Kane and his mistress.

I was still keeping up when I felt it.

A burning, shameless stare pressed into me like a hand on bare skin. It wasn't the wandering drunk stare one would avoid at places like this. This was heavy and focused, like whoever it belonged to could see through my dress…straight through me.

It crawled over my skin, hot enough to make goosebumps rise despite the heat.

I tried to keep moving, rolling my shoulders in time with the beat, laughing with Hera when she spun me around. But the awareness didn’t fade—it deepened, coiling in my stomach.

I didn’t need to turn to know it was fixed on me. But I did anyway, scanning the crowd.

And then my eyes met his.