Chapter 1

Chapter One

EmmaWrite

I used to love the way Ethan kissed me after a long day. He’d walk through the door, drop his keys on the counter, and I’d meet him halfway—barefoot, wearing nothing but the little cotton shorts and tank top I lounged in around the apartment.

He’d cup my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and kiss me like he was coming home. Soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, until my knees went weak and I had to clutch his shoulders just to stay upright. There was something in the way he smiled against my lips and the low rumble in his chest when I pressed closer that always made me feel desired. Wanted. Enough.

Tonight was supposed to be like that again.

He came in smelling like summer air and the faint trace of beer from the gym. I smiled, rose onto my toes, and pressed my mouth to his. His hair was still damp from the shower. I slid my fingers through it, tugging gently the way he liked. For one perfect heartbeat, his hands settled on my waist, and everything felt right.

“Missed you,” he murmured against my lips, his his voice already rough.

“I missed you too,” I whispered. I really had. All day I’d been reading articles—Ten Ways to Reconnect, Understanding Female Arousal, How to Spice Things Up—desperate to fix whatever had been slipping away between us. Tonight I was going to try harder. Be better. Be enough.

His kiss grew deeper, tongues sliding, hands roaming. I let him walk me backward toward the bedroom, heart racing with nervous hope. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I pulled him down on top of me, skin warm against skin. His weight felt familiar, comforting. He kissed along my jaw, down my neck, sucking lightly at the spot that usually made me shiver.

I arched into him, hands sliding under his shirt to trace the muscles of his back. His breath hitched when I dragged my nails lightly down his skin. For a moment, heat flickered low in my belly—real, promising. I chased it, kissing him harder, rolling my hips up against the growing hardness I could feel through his sweatpants.

But the spark faded almost as quickly as it came.

No matter how I touched him—stroking his chest, slipping my hand between us to palm him through the fabric—my body stayed distant. Tense. Like it was locked behind a thick wall I couldn’t break through. I tried to relax, to breathe, to focus on the feel of his mouth on my breasts when he pushed my tank top up. His tongue circled my nipple, wet and warm, and I moaned softly, hoping the sound would convince both of us.

It didn’t.

Ethan pulled back, breathing hard, and looked down at me. His eyes were dark with want but shadowed with frustration.

“Babe… you’re not into this,” he said quietly.

Heat flooded my face. “I’m sorry. I’m trying—I swear I am.”

“I know.” He kissed my forehead, gentle in a way that made my chest ache. “Let’s slow down. Maybe that’ll help.”

We tried again. Slower this time. His fingers traced between my legs, stroking me through my dampening shorts before sliding underneath. He was good with his hands—patient, circling my clit with the pressure he knew I liked. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation, willing my body to respond. For a few minutes warmth built, slick and promising. I rocked against his fingers, whispering his name, telling him how good it felt.

But the peak I needed stayed just out of reach. The more I chased it, the further it slipped away.

He exhaled sharply, pulling his hand back. “Mia… is this working for you?”

I couldn’t lie when he was looking at me like that.

“I’m trying,” I said, voice small.

He rolled off me and sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. The silence stretched, heavy and painful.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he whispered. “I love you, but I feel like I’m the only one who wants to be here.”

The words landed like a blow. I couldn’t breathe for a second.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, tears already burning my eyes.

He sighed, exhausted. “You’re not the problem, Mia. We just… don’t work anymore.” He stood and headed for the bathroom. “I’m going to shower. Maybe we both need some space tonight.”

The door clicked shut. The lock turned.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, tears slipping down my temples into my hair. The worst part wasn’t even the rejection—it was the crushing weight of failure. Of knowing I couldn’t give him what he needed, no matter how much I wanted to.

Eventually I wrapped the throw blanket around myself and moved to my vanity, desperate for anything other than being alone with my thoughts. I opened my messages and texted my best friend Sophie—the only person who knew how bad things had gotten.

It happened again. He said he feels like he’s the only one in this relationship. I think we’re done.

I pressed send and stared at my reflection. Red, puffy eyes. Tangled hair stuck to my damp cheeks. I looked wrecked. Broken.

My phone buzzed.

Oh honey, no. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.

Then another message right after:

Hey, listen to me. I know this sounds crazy, but there’s someone I think could help. Remember my ex-husband Vincent? He’s a doctor now—specializes in women’s sexual health. His clinic just opened. He’s supposed to be incredible at this. Very professional, very discreet. I can give you his info if you want.

Sophie's ex-husband. The one she’d divorced three years ago. I’d never met him. They’d been married young, divorced amicably, and stayed friends. She rarely talked about him except to say he’d become some fancy doctor.

Your ex? Sophie, that’s so weird. I can’t go to your ex-husband about this.

Her reply was instant.

I know it seems weird, but Mia, he’s literally the best at what he does. And I trust him. We’re still friends. He knows I’d only refer people I care about. His practice is super professional. Sliding scale payments. Please just look at his info. You don’t have to do anything with it.

She sent the link: Dr. Vincent Kane, Kane Women’s Health Center.

The website was sleek and calming. His photo made my breath catch for a second—late thirties or early forties, dark hair with silver at the temples, strong jaw, and serious blue-gray eyes that somehow looked kind even in a professional headshot. White coat over an expensive blue button-down.

The description listed specialties: orgasmic dysfunction, low libido, painful intercourse, pelvic floor therapy, sexual trauma recovery. Everything confidential. Judgment-free.

At the bottom: We believe every woman deserves access to quality sexual health care. Sliding scale fees available. No one turned away.

From the bathroom, I heard the shower turn off and Ethan humming—cheerful, like the last hour hadn’t gutted me.

What did I have to lose? My relationship was already over. My body felt like it belonged to someone else.

I hovered over the Book Appointment button, stomach in knots.

Then Ethan’s footsteps padded toward the bedroom—not toward me, not checking if I was okay.

I clicked it.

Tuesday at 11:00 AM was open. I confirmed.

Your appointment with Dr. Vincent Kane is confirmed for Tuesday, October 14th at 11:00 AM.

I screenshot it and sent it to Sophie.

PROUD OF YOU, she replied immediately. I know it’s weird but I promise he’ll help. He’s really good at this, Mia. A completely different person than when we were married—more mature, more focused. You’re in good hands. Text me after, okay? Love you.

Love you too.

I set the phone down and stared at the dark screen, heart pounding.

Tomorrow I would walk into that office and meet my best friend’s ex-husband. The man she trusted enough to stay friends with after their divorce.

I had no idea I was about to meet the man who would change everything.

I was wrong about a lot of things. That was only the first.