Lahat ng Kabanata ng His Ex Mistress, His Enemy: Kabanata 171 - Kabanata 180

The courtroom benches always felt the same: too hard, too straight, too honest.I sat without leaning back. Knees slightly apart, hands on the table, index finger tapping lightly on the polished wood. One-two-three. Stop. Repeat.Across from me, Amelia held a tissue in a way that looked carefully practiced. Elbows close to the edge of the table, wrist tilted just a little, tissue brushing the corner of her eye. Tears that never dared to ruin the makeup. Enough moisture for sympathy. Not enough for truth.The judge read something from the file. His words filled the room, but my head drifted backward.First stage: separation. Four years ago. She packed her suitcase for another penthouse, left a closet full of dresses and a bar cart I used more for sleeping pills than whiskey. She sent a long message through her lawyer: “I need space.” I answered with temporary support transfers and a family attorney who was “friendly to both sides.” Lie. He was friendly to my name.Second stage: tempora

Ash always felt twice as heavy after a tantrum.We carried him to his room like we were hauling a clingy sack of flour. He just mumbled something about chicken and evil soap before sinking back into his pillow. Maritza kissed his forehead, said her goodbye, and went downstairs, threatening to finish the leftover pancakes if I didn’t hide them in the fridge.The house went quiet after that. Too quiet.I ended up on the back porch, sitting in a wicker chair, feet up on the wooden railing, a hoodie thrown over my T-shirt. The lake in front of me lay dark, catching a little light from the house. Cold air slipped through the gaps and raised goosebumps along my arms.The glass in my hand wasn’t wine. Tea. Damn it. This morning I had already slept with a man who had officially become a widower only a few hours ago, and the last thing I needed to decide right now was whether I wanted to trade my morals for Merlot.The sliding door behind me moved. A soft sound. Not the kind that startled. Mor

If commercial flights were fancy city minibuses, Zane’s plane had felt like a two-bedroom apartment somebody forgot to lower back down to Earth.I’d lain on my side on the bed, bare feet, a thin hoodie and shorts, one hand gripping my phone while the other crushed a pillow. Above my head, the ceiling ran smooth and white with panel lights. Off to the side, a big oval window showed thick clouds and the tip of a wing.The jet had a bar, a sofa, a huge TV, a small kitchen, and a bedroom that, honestly, looked neater than mine at the lake house. White sheets. A cushy gray headboard. Soft carpet. If I couldn’t hear the muted engine hum under my body and didn’t know we were moving, I would’ve believed it was a hotel suite.My phone screen lit up a little kid’s face with gelato smeared around her mouth.Maritza: Just landed. First batch of sugar attack.The first photo showed Ash and Zoe at a tiny café table inside an Italian airport, each holding a cone with two scoops. Behind them, Zade st

The resort restaurant had clung to the cliff like some architect’s unhinged love letter to the view.The floor had been wood, half-open to the air, a tall thatched roof rising overhead, and our table had faced the ocean head-on. Down below, waves had cracked against the rock wall, white foam lifting and falling like a giant’s breathing. Wind had carried salt, flowers, and a little bit of kitchen: garlic, sambal, rice fresh off the pot.In front of me, the table had been crowded with small plates: chicken satay, grilled shrimp, green vegetables the server had called “kangkung” with a straight face, white rice, and three kinds of sambal. One of them had glowed a bright red that looked like a hazard sign.Beside me, Zane had sat too close for any polite definition of close. He’d dragged his chair in until his knee had pressed against mine, one arm stretched along the back of my chair so it looked like he’d half-embraced the chair and whoever sat in it. His other hand had stayed busy… on

Zane PovThe beach pulled a double shift that evening. The sky split into three colors: orange, a thin wash of violet, and blue retreating in slow steps. The sun drifted toward the rim of the water, a round gold-red coin whose glow turned the sea into something poured from a copper pitcher.My café perched on the sand, half wooden deck, half low lounge pressed right against the beach. Strings of small bulbs hung between bamboo poles. The speakers spilled something soft, EDM, jazz, something with enough pulse to let rich people sway their shoulders while pretending they were talking stocks.Our table sat in the best spot. Corner of the deck, an L-shaped couch facing the ocean and angled toward the bar. Close enough to watch the crowd, far enough not to get clipped by an influencer and their tripod.Dianna leaned at the end of the couch, the low backrest barely catching her spine. That white dress shaped itself around her without much effort. Her bare feet sank into the sand under the t