"Another night at the office, Viv. Don't wait up."

The text from Crane sat on my screen, cold and predictable. I didn't bother typing a reply. What was the point? I shifted on the velvet cushion of the bay window, the glass chilled by the Thursday night air. My second glass of Merlot was halfway gone, staining the crystal a deep, bruised purple.

I looked down at the streetlamp-lit road three stories below. My mind didn't go to my husband’s mahogany desk or his silent assistant. It went to the grease-stained pavement two blocks away.

I opened my messages and tapped the icon for Margot Reyes. I needed to bleed these thoughts out before they choked me.

"I think I’m losing my mind, Margot," I typed, my thumb flying over the glass. "It’s that man from the repair shop again. Kai Donovan."

I paused, taking a long swallow of wine. The heat of the alcohol emboldened me.

"He was wearing that black leather jacket today. The one with the scuffed elbows. He was leaning against the brick wall, lighting a cigarette, and he didn't even look up when I walked by with the trash. But I saw his jaw. It’s so sharp it looks like it could cut skin. And his hands… Margot, they were covered in engine oil. Dark, thick smears across his knuckles."

I felt a flush creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the wine.

"I keep imagining those oil-stained hands on me. I want him to press me against the cold metal of a car hood and just take what he wants. I want to feel that grit against my skin. I want him to stop being polite and just ruin me."

I stared at the paragraph. It was scandalous. It was pathetic. It was exactly how I felt. I hit the blue arrow and watched the bubble fly upward.

Then I looked at the name at the top of the screen.

It wasn't Margot Reyes.

The name staring back at me, bold and terrifying, was Kai Donovan.

"Oh, God," I whispered.

The room seemed to tilt. I scrambled to tap the message, my fingers shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. *Delete. Delete for everyone.*

*The time limit for unsending this message has expired.*

The blue bubble sat there, a permanent confession of my deepest, filthiest desire. I had added him to my contacts three weeks ago when he’d patched my tire. Donovan. Reyes. They were right next to each other in the list.

My stomach gave a violent, watery heave.

I dropped the phone on the window seat and bolted for the master bathroom. I barely made it to the porcelain sink before the wine and the bile forced their way up. I gripped the marble counter, my knuckles white, as I retched into the basin. The acidic burn in my throat matched the searing heat of my shame.

I rinsed my mouth, splashing cold water over my face until my skin felt numb.

*Maybe he’s asleep,* I told myself, staring at my haggard reflection in the mirror. *Maybe he’ll think it’s a prank. Or a virus.*

The phone on the counter vibrated.

The sound was like a gunshot in the silent bathroom. I didn't want to look. I wanted to throw the device out the window and move to another state. But the screen stayed lit, humming with a second notification.

I reached out, my hand trembling, and swiped the screen open.

Kai: "The shop closes at five, but I stay late on Fridays to work on my own bike."

I stared at the words, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. There was no "Who is this?" There was no "You have the wrong number."

Then, the second message appeared.

Kai: "4:30 PM tomorrow. Use the side door. I won't bother washing the oil off my hands."

I sank to the floor, my back sliding down the cold subway tile. The phone felt like it was vibrating with his voice, even though it was just text. It wasn't a question. It was a command. He hadn't just read my fantasy; he had claimed it.

"Vivienne? You in there?"

The sound of the heavy oak bedroom door swinging open made me jump. My phone slid across the tile, the screen still glowing with Kai's response.

"Crane?" I called out, my voice cracking. "You said you were staying at the office."

"Meeting got cancelled," his voice drifted in, sounding tired and annoyed. "Why are the lights off? And why are you on the floor?"

I lunged for the phone, flipping it face down just as my husband stepped into the bathroom doorway. He was already pulling at his silk tie, his expression pinched with the usual stress of a man who cared more about profit margins than his wife’s pulse.

"I… I dropped my earring," I lied, my heart racing so fast I thought I might faint. "I was looking for the backing."

Crane didn't move to help me. He just leaned against the doorframe, his eyes scanning the room. "You smell like wine. And vomit."

"I’m not feeling well," I said, pushing myself up. I tucked the phone into the waistband of my silk leggings, the metal casing cold against my skin. "I think the fish at lunch was turned."

"Great," Crane sighed, turning back toward the bed. "Just what I need. A sick wife when I have a ten-million-dollar closing tomorrow."

He walked away, leaving me standing in the dark bathroom. My skin was prickling with a sudden, terrifying electricity.

My husband was ten feet away, complaining about his schedule.

And in my waistband, a man I barely knew was waiting for me to walk through a side door and let him ruin me.

I felt the phone buzz again against my hip. Another message.

I didn't dare look at it with Crane in the next room, but I knew what it was. It was the sound of my life shattering.

I stood there in the silence, listening to the sound of my husband ruffling the sheets, while the ghost of Kai Donovan’s words burned a hole through my mind.

I wasn't a good woman. I wasn't a loyal wife.

And as I looked down at my shaking hands, I realized I couldn't wait for 4:30 PM.

The bedroom door groaned as Crane shut it, locking us in together, but my mind was already two blocks away, in the dark, smelling of tobacco and grease.

The rattle of metal against the front door lock echoed up the stairs, shattering the quiet of the house.

"Crane," I whispered.

I shoved my phone deep into the fleece pocket of my bathrobe. My fingers fumbled with the bathroom faucet. I splashed freezing water over my cheeks, grabbed a hand towel, and pushed the door open just as the heavy oak front door swung shut downstairs.

I walked to the top of the landing. Crane Ashford stood in the foyer, shrugging off his tailored suit jacket.

"You're home early," I called down.

He jumped slightly, his head snapping up. "Jesus, Vivienne. You startled me."

"Sorry," I said, descending the stairs slowly. "You usually don't get back until past midnight on Thursdays."

"Traffic was light," he replied. He draped the jacket over the wooden coat rack.

I stepped closer to him. A scent hit me. It wasn't the sterile, air-conditioned smell of his downtown office. It wasn't the sharp bite of his expensive cologne. It was floral. Sweet. A faint, lingering perfume that definitely didn't come from our laundry detergent.

"Did you close the deal?" I asked, keeping my voice perfectly even.

"Pushed to tomorrow." He didn't look at me. He busied himself with unfastening his cuffs. "The client needed more time to review the clauses."

"That doesn't sound like your usual clients," I said. "They usually sign on the dotted line the second you walk in the room."

"Well, this one is difficult," he muttered.

"Which client is it?" I pressed. "The tech startup or the real estate firm?"

"You wouldn't know them, Vivienne."

"Thirty seconds," I whispered to the glass pane.

My reflection stared back from the coffee shop door, looking like a complete stranger. The beige trench coat I wore like a daily uniform hung in my hall closet at home. Instead, I wore a dark knit dress. The fabric clung to my hips and waist, a garment I hadn’t pulled from its hanger since before I married Crane.

I lifted my hand and dragged my thumb hard across my mouth. The maroon lipstick smeared across my skin. I rubbed the color onto a crumpled tissue until my lips were bare, raw, and stinging.

He needed to see a flustered housewife. He needed to think I was a humiliated woman who drank too much Merlot and typed the wrong name into her phone. I couldn't let Kai Donovan think I wanted this.

I shoved the tissue into my purse and pushed the heavy glass door open.

The entry bell rang, a sharp jingle that made my shoulders flinch.

Kai sat in the furthest booth at the back of the room. He didn't stand up. He didn't raise a hand to wave me over. His dark eyes locked onto my face the second I crossed the threshold. He simply lifted his chin, pointing toward the empty vinyl seat across from him.

I walked over, keeping my grip tight on my leather bag. My shoes tapped softly against the checkered linoleum. I slid into the booth, keeping my back rigid against the cushion.

Two mugs sat on the scratched wooden table between us.

"You ordered for me," I said.

"Drink it," Kai replied.

I wrapped my cold fingers around the ceramic. Steam rose from the surface, warming my skin. I took a small sip. Oat milk. I swallowed hard, the rich, earthy taste coating my throat.

"I never told you my order," I said, setting the mug down.

"You complain about the cheap dairy creamers in the waiting room when you bring your car into the shop," he said. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "It wasn't a hard guess."

"I didn't come here for coffee, Kai."

"Then why did you come?"

"To tell you that message was a massive mistake."

"A mistake," he repeated. His voice gave nothing away.

"Yes. Exactly. I meant to send it to my friend Margot."

"You meant to tell your friend you want my hands on you?"

My face burned. "I meant to vent! I was frustrated, and I had too much wine, and I hit the wrong contact. That's all it was."

"Did you lie in the text?"

"That's not the point."

"It's the only point, Vivienne. Did you lie?"

"I was drunk."

"Alcohol doesn't invent fantasies out of thin air. It just removes the filter."

I glared at him, my fingernails digging into the strap of my purse. "You are completely out of line."

"You texted me that you want me to press you against a car hood and ruin you," he said, not lowering his volume at all. "I'm not the one out of line."

"Keep your voice down," I hissed, glancing at the counter to make sure the barista wasn't listening.

"What time does your husband get home today?"

The shift in topic felt like a physical shove. I blinked, my mouth snapping shut.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"You heard me." He didn't blink. His forearms rested on the edge of the table now, the sleeves of his gray Henley pushed up to his elbows. Faint, dark smudges of engine grease stained the skin near his wrists. "What time does he walk through the front door?"

"Why are you asking about Crane?"

"Because I need to know how much time we have."

"There is no 'we'."

"Answer the question, Vivienne. When does he get home?"

He wasn't asking for a date. He wasn't trying to romance me with sweet talk or gentle compliments. He was directly, brutally mapping out a timeline.

A terrifying realization washed over me. Before I even left my kitchen today, before I put on the dark knit dress, I had opened the shared digital calendar on Crane's iPad. I already knew the answer to Kai's question. I had checked it specifically for this reason.

"He won't," I said.

Kai tilted his head. "He won't what?"

"He won't be home today." I picked up the oat milk coffee again, taking a larger swallow this time. "He left for an out-of-town trip this morning. Three days."

The words hung in the air between us.

I heard the tone of my own voice echoing in my ears. It wasn't anxious. It wasn't defensive. It was incredibly light.

The realization hit me hard enough to make my chest ache. I hadn't come to this cafe to clear things up. I hadn't come to shut him down or demand an apology. I came here to find an excuse to go to his apartment.

Kai didn't smile. He didn't offer a charming smirk or reach across the table to stroke my hand.

He picked up his mug of black coffee, took a long swallow, and set it down with a heavy thud. Then, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans.

Metal jingled.

He pulled out a silver ring holding two tarnished brass keys. He placed them flat in the center of the table. Using his index finger, he pushed them exactly halfway across the wood. They stopped inches from my latte.

"The brass one is for the side door in the alley," Kai said. His tone dropped an octave, scraping against my nerves. "The silver one is for the apartment at the top of the stairs."

I stared at the jagged metal. My throat felt incredibly dry. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a window," he said.

He stood up, towering over the small booth. He pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it onto the table next to his empty mug.

"You have until nine o'clock tonight," he said, looking down at me. "If you show up before then, I'll give you exactly what you asked for in that message."

My stomach dropped, a sudden rush of vertigo spinning the room. "And if I don't?"

"If the clock hits nine-oh-one, don't bother coming. I'll lock the deadbolt."

"You can't just dictate terms to me like that."

"I just did."

He didn't wait for my response. He didn't look back to see if I was angry or scared. He simply turned and walked out the door, the entry bell chiming his exit.

I sat alone in the booth.

The keys rested on the scratched table, catching the dull afternoon light from the window. I didn't reach for them. I didn't push them away. I just stared at the brass edges.

I didn't know if I had the courage to turn that lock tonight. But as I watched the metal gleam, I wondered how a man I barely knew was so absolutely certain I would pick them up.