All Chapters of Tangled Desires: Ex Husband Wants Me Back : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

​JEROME’S POV ​Sage green. ​I stood in the center of the nursery, a paint roller in my hand, staring at the patch of drywall I had just covered. The smell of fresh paint—low VOC, non-toxic, because Ava had researched every ingredient like a forensic scientist—filled the room. It was a domestic scent, sharp but clean, entirely different from the smells of whiskey, jet fuel, and fear that usually permeated my life. ​“You missed a spot,” Ava said from the doorway. ​I turned to look at her. She was sitting in the rocking chair we had assembled an hour ago, a cup of herbal tea in her hands. She was wearing one of my oversized t-shirts and leggings, her hair pulled up in a messy bun. She looked radiant. She looked safe. ​“I don’t miss,” I retorted, dipping the roller into the tray. “I am creating texture. It’s an artistic choice.” ​Ava laughed, the sound bubbling up light and free. “It’s sloppy, Mr. Parker. Admit it. You can run a billion-dollar conglomerate, but you can’t paint a st

​JEROME’S POV ​The sound of a cell door sliding shut is a specific kind of violence. ​It’s heavy. Industrial. Final. It’s the sound of your humanity being stripped away, layer by layer, until you are nothing but a number in a system designed to break you. ​ ​The echo reverberated off the cinderblock walls, settling deep in my bones. ​I stood in the center of the holding cell. It was six by eight. A stainless steel toilet in the corner. A concrete bench bolted to the wall. The air smelled of industrial bleach, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of fear. ​I was still wearing my suit—the charcoal grey one I had put on to face Vane. Now, the jacket was gone, taken into evidence. My tie was gone, confiscated so I wouldn’t hang myself. My belt was gone. My shoelaces were gone. ​I looked like a man unraveling. ​I sat on the concrete bench. The cold seeped through my trousers instantly. I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my face in my hands. ​Ava. ​The image of her standing

​JEROME’S POV ​The release process was surreal. ​One minute, I was sitting on a concrete floor in a crowded holding cell, listening to a meth addict scream about spiders in his skin. The next, a guard was unlocking the gate, calling my name, and escorting me back to the intake room. ​“You made bail, Parker,” the sergeant muttered, handing me a plastic bag with my belongings. “Judge reversed the no-bail order. Cited ‘procedural errors’ in the initial hearing.” ​I frowned as I stripped off the orange jumpsuit and pulled on my suit. It smelled like jail—stale and metallic—but feeling the fabric of my own clothes against my skin was the first step back to humanity. ​Procedural errors? Judge Halloway was in Vane’s pocket. He had denied bail with a smirk on his face less than twenty-four hours ago. What had changed? ​I walked out of the heavy steel doors of the Twin Towers Correctional Facility and into the blinding afternoon sun. ​The paparazzi were waiting, of course. A wall of fl

​Ava's POV He took a step toward me. ​"Vane thought he was the mastermind," Silas chuckled darkly. "He thought he was blackmailing me. He thought that because I was 'dead', he could control me. He didn't realize that being dead gives a man a lot of freedom. Freedom to move. Freedom to plan. Freedom to wait." ​He stopped inches from me. The smell of scotch and old spice was overwhelming. ​"I gave you the money, Ava," he said. "I gave you the leverage on the judge. Do you know why?" ​"To save Jerome," I whispered, though I knew it was a lie. ​"No," Silas said. "To secure the company. Jerome was losing control. Vane was tearing chunks out of the stock. I couldn't let my legacy be destroyed by a petty feud between boys." ​He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was cold. ​"I needed the shares consolidated," he explained. "I needed the board bought. And I needed Jerome... out of the way. Permanently." ​I slapped his hand away. "You set him up! You tipp

​JEROME’S POV ​Jail has a rhythm. It’s a discordant, violent staccato, but it’s a rhythm nonetheless. ​Step. Clang. Shout. Step. ​I had been in County for forty-eight hours. To the outside world, that was two days. Inside, it was a lifetime. I had learned the geography of the pod—the blind spots where the guards couldn’t see, the tables you didn’t sit at, the men you didn’t make eye contact with. ​I sat on my bunk, my back pressed against the cold cinderblock. My orange jumpsuit itched. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and desperation. ​I wasn’t afraid. Fear is a reaction to the unknown. I knew exactly what this was. It was a chessboard, just like the boardroom. The pieces were different—shivs instead of stocks, fists instead of hostile takeovers—but the game was the same. Power. Leverage. Survival. ​My cellmate, a massive man named Tiny who was in for aggravated assault, was snoring on the top bunk. He had tried to intimidate me the first night. I had broken