FREYA

I sat on the floor for.... I don't even know how long. The only difference between me and someone unconscious was that I still knew I was sitting. I was aware of my body touching the tiles, but nothing else. My eyes were open, but they weren't seeing anything. It felt like someone stuffed cotton inside my ears. Everything around me was muted and far away, like I was trapped underwater. I didn't even hear footsteps. I only felt a hand on my shoulder, and I jolted so hard the breath caught in my throat. When I looked up, it was Rebecca. Luna's nanny. She had that look. The one people give when they already know something went wrong, but they are scared to ask. "Are you okay?" she asked quietly. "I'm fine," I said, even though my voice didn't sound like mine. I pushed myself up from the floor. My legs were stiff, like they forgot how to be legs. Rebecca stretched my phone toward me. "It has been ringing for a long time. That is why I came to get it for you." "Thank you." I took it from her and looked at the screen. Fifteen missed calls. All from my store manager. Of course. Problems never respect timing; I guess something is wrong at the store. Just as I wanted to walk away, I stopped and forced myself to ask, "What about my hus-..." I closed my eyes because even saying the word felt like lifting something heavy. "My husband and Luna." "They left already," Rebecca said softly. "I packed Luna's lunch. Her spare bottle. And her cardigan, snacks. She was quiet this morning, though." Quiet. Because of me. Because I snapped. I nodded. "Alright. Thank you." I walked away, checking my phone as I went. A long text from Gladys lit up the screen. Supplier issues. Asking for permission to take funds and handle it. I typed back, "Gladys, please sort it. I grant you permission." My throat was dry like I had swallowed dust. It was still early, but my body felt like it had lived the whole day already. I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Rebecca followed behind silently. "You can go," I said without turning. "I'm fine." She hesitated. "Are you sure?" "Go, Rebecca. Please." She hesitated, then nodded. Rebecca didn't live in the main house. She stayed in the small apartment behind the courtyard and only came over when Luna was around. But right now I could see it... she didn't want to leave me alone. I forced a small smile. "I'm okay." The moment she walked away, my knees almost buckled, but I held the railing and kept moving. I walked straight to the sink. I poured myself a cup of water. My hand shook a little, but I ignored it and drank everything in one go. When I dropped the glass cup, the sound echoed around the kitchen. I didn't move away from the counter. I just closed my eyes and breathed out slowly. Then I looked up, right at the ceiling. "Daddy... your friend's son is no longer treating your daughter right," I whispered. Saying it out loud burned. Not because of Mark. Because my father wasn't here to hear it. I stepped out of the kitchen and headed for the living room. I was about to turn toward the hallway that led to my room when I saw Rebecca's figure still by the entrance. "Rebecca," I called, surprised she was still there. I walked toward her slowly. And that was when I noticed someone else was standing there. I walked closer just to see who Rebecca was talking to, and the moment I got close enough to actually see his face and body, I almost lost my breath. Or maybe I was just being silly. But honestly... who the hell is this? I didn't know this stranger, but his look alone felt illegal. Not just the look, the whole body shape. Did he spend all his life in the gym? His shoulders were wide, arms thick with that type of muscle that doesn't come from pretending to work out. His shirt hugged his chest like it was trying to hold on for dear life. Veins ran down his forearms. His jawline was sharp and clean, and the small stubble only made it worse. Dark hair. Low fade. A tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. The type of man girls describe online and people say doesn't exist in real life and is just fiction. Growing up, if anyone asked me my type of guy, this stranger standing here was exactly what I would have described. My exact dream man in human form. Oh God... I know the question is, why did I end up with Mark? Mark was good-looking, yes, in that corporate man way. Not anywhere close to this. And I fell in love with Mark being Mark. The man I thought I knew then, not the beast he is now. Mark was brilliant, smart, a mathematician, and had a whole different vibe. But this guy... this guy looked like he would have a crazy fashion sense without even trying. He was just in casual wear and still managed to make it look expensive. Who the hell is this? I suddenly realized I had been staring too long. I looked at Rebecca and nodded for her to leave. She quietly walked off. "Hi," I said, but my voice sounded like it wasn't sure of itself. "Hi," he replied, smiling. What the hell. He smiled. "I have been here before," he said, still holding that light smile. "But no one seemed to be at home." He stretched the flyer toward me and started talking again, his voice smooth and steady. "We just opened a new gym down the street. State-of-the-art equipment, personal trainers, classes, all that. And we're giving out discount coupons for people in the neighborhood. The first month is half off, and-" Gym. The second that word hit my ears, something inside me twisted hard. My brain didn't even process the rest. Everything inside me snapped back to Mark in the bedroom, pointing at my stomach and my waist, telling me to fix myself. To work on myself. Like my body was some problem he needed solved. And then, in one sick, dizzy second, my mind put it together: a ripped stranger showing up the very same morning, handing me a gym flyer. Did Mark really do this? ... I actually believe he sent this man. My chest tightened. My breath shook. The humiliation hit me so fast it felt like a slap. Of course he would. Of course Mark wants to humiliate me further by arranging for a full-muscle gym man to show up at my door. That was exactly the kind of insult he would think is "helpful." The embarrassment burned through me again. "And by the way, my name is Steve," he added. I blinked, snapped out of my haze, and before I knew it, the words fell out of my mouth. "Did Mark send you?" Steve paused, confused. "Who is Mark?" A single tear dropped from my left eye before I could stop it. I didn't even understand why it fell so fast, but I knew exactly what triggered it. Mark's voice replaying in my head. His words stabbing me again and again. My throat tightened. "Please... take your leave," I whispered. I turned quickly, wanting to walk away before I embarrassed myself even more. But his hand reached out gently and held my arm. I froze. Not because it hurt. But because the touch was warm, steady, and intentional. It made every nerve in my body spark sharply. I felt his grip-not rough, not grabbing, just firm enough to stop me. I turned slowly. His eyes narrowed slightly, focused on my face. And then he said quietly, his voice deep and intense, nothing like before: "You're crying?" The way he said it...

FREYA

His fingers were still on my arm when the question left his mouth again, more rough and darker this time.

"You're crying?"

The way he growled it, like the sight of my tears personally offended him, sent a violent shiver down my spine.

I tried to twist away. "Please. Just go."

He didn't.

His grip tightened, not cruel, but absolute. Like iron wrapped in velvet. His thumb pressed over the frantic pulse in my wrist and stayed there, reading me, claiming the beat of my heart.... I hate how he stares at me.

"Look at me," he said.

Just two words. A command I felt between my legs before my brain caught up.

I dragged my eyes to his.

But that was my mistake.

Up close he was worse. Storm-gray eyes, blown black with something feral. The kind of face that made women stupid and graves shallow. A thin scar cut through his left brow, and the stubble on his jaw looked sharp enough to cut skin.

He stepped forward. I stepped back. My spine hit the doorframe.

"Tell me who made you cry, Princess."

"Princess" The way he said it-low, deliberate, tasting every syllable-made my knees threaten to fold.

"I don't even know you," I whispered.

"You will."

His free hand lifted, slow enough that I could have moved. But I didn't; his knuckles brushed the tear track on my cheek, and the contact lit me up like a match dragged across stone.

"I don't chase women," he said, voice gravel and smoke. "I don't beg or flirt. I don't feel much of anything anymore."

His thumb swept under my eye.

"But you opened this door looking like someone had ripped your soul out through your chest... and every dead thing inside me woke up snarling."

My breath hitched hard enough to hurt.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. Not a kiss. A brand.

"I don't know who the fuck Mark is," he growled, "but he just ran out of time."

A helpless sound escaped me-half sob, half moan. I hated myself for it.

Steve heard it. His eyes flared. The hand on my wrist slid up my arm, slow and deliberate, until his palm collared the side of my throat. No pressure. Just possession. His thumb rested over the frantic flutter of my pulse like he was counting the ways he could ruin me.

"I'm going to fix this," he said against my temple. "Every tear he puts on your face, I'm putting on his and the rest on you. In my bed. On your knees. Until the only name you remember how to scream is mine."

The words were vibrating down my bones.

I was fucking wet.

Shamefully, instantly, drenched.

He felt the tremor that ran through me-because of course he did-and the corner of his mouth curved, dark with a triumphant smile.

I tried to save myself by saying something to let him go.

"I-" My voice cracked like thin ice. "I'm married." But the words were scraped out, small and desperate. "I have a daughter."

He tilted his head, thumb still stroking that spot on my throat.

"Had a kid?" His gaze dropped to my stomach this time, but it was still dark with want. "Then your body did something holy. Anyone who could get on his knees needs to worship it like a fucking idiot."

He leaned closer. "Lucky for you, I'm very good at kneeling."

"But not today," he said, pulling back just enough that cold air rushed between us. "Today you breathe. Today you decide if you're brave enough to burn your old life down."

His hand left my throat. I swayed like he'd cut the only thing holding me upright.

He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a matte black card, and pressed it into my palm. His fingers closed mine around it-slow, deliberate.

"Tomorrow. Eight. State-of-the-Art Gym. You walk through my door, Princess, you're mine. And there will be more tears that belong to pleasure.

His gaze dragged down my body, possessive and unhurried, like he was already stripping me bare.

He stepped back.

One step. Two.

The absence of his heat felt like drowning.

At the threshold he paused, looked over his shoulder, and the look he gave me was pure predator.

"Lock your door, baby," he said, voice velvet and venom.

The roar of his bike split a second later.

I slid down the closed door until my ass hit the marble, legs trembling, thighs slick, holding the black card so tight.

Tomorrow. Eight.

I was already ruined.

God help me...

I don't know how long I stayed on the floor.

Minutes. Maybe an hour.

The floor was cold against my thighs, but the rest of me was burning. My panties were ruined. Actually ruined. I could feel the proof of what that stranger did to me with nothing but words and one thumb on my throat.

I hated him. No. I wanted him.

Both at the same time, so violently my teeth ached.

Eventually I dragged myself upstairs on shaky legs, the black card still cutting into my palm. I dropped it on the bathroom counter and stripped for a shower. The hot water hit my skin, and I closed my eyes, trying to wash him off.

But guess what-it didn't work.

Every time I blinked I saw storm-gray eyes and that scar through his brow. I heard that growl again:

"Once I start, I don't stop. And I'm already starving."

My knees almost buckled.

I slapped the tile wall so hard my palm stung.

"Get a grip, Freya. You're married. You have a child. You're falling apart, and some tattooed gym bro just mind-fucked you in your own doorway."

I got out, wrapped myself in a towel, and tried to act like a functioning human.

I had three online meetings scheduled with my store managers-new inventory, supplier drama, and holiday displays. I threw on an oversized sweater and leggings, tied my wet hair into a messy bun, and opened my laptop on the couch.

Gladys's face popped up first. The meeting started, and she was talking numbers, margins, and some shipments that arrived damaged. I nodded in all the right places, but the entire time my eyes kept drifting to the black card I'd carried downstairs like a lunatic.

State-of-the-art gym

Steve Hayes – Owner

address. a phone number and a tiny silver logo that looked like a broken crown.

Gladys asked me something twice. I blinked. "Sorry, repeat that?"

She gave me a worried look. "Ma'am, are you okay? You look... flushed."

"I'm fine," I lied, fanning myself even though the AC was on full blast.

Meeting two. Meeting three. Same thing. I was present in my body only. My brain was replaying the way his thumb pressed over my pulse like he already owned it.

At 2:17 p.m. my phone buzzed on the counter.

Honey: (Well, that's Mark.)

Hey. Picking Luna up from school today. Taking her for ice cream and to the park so you can rest. Love you.

I stared at the text until the words blurred.

Love you.

The two words he's been saying to me while fucking his college friend behind me. And now he was using them like a hall pass to take my daughter to play happy family with his mistress.

I laughed. It came out ugly and broken.

I typed back before I could stop myself.

Me:

Funny. Always acting like you're father of the year?

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.

Mark: Freya, don't start. I'm doing something nice.

I almost threw the phone across the room.

Nice.

Another text.

Mark: Lila's coming too. Luna asked for her. Don't make this weird.

My vision went red.

I didn't reply. I couldn't. My hands were shaking too hard.

I snapped back to last night at 12am. Mark's iPad wallpaper. Him, Luna, and Lila laughing under sunshine, and Lila's hand on my daughter's shoulder. and Mark's arm around Lila's waist, and it's funny they are having another moment again.

Just thinking about that makes something feral snap inside my chest.

I swiped out and opened a new message. My thumb hovered... then I typed the number from the black card before I could talk myself out of it.

Me (2:29 p.m.):

What happens if I come tonight?

I hit send immediately, and I wanted to vomit.

The reply came in less than ten seconds.

Unknown: (Steve)

You already know what happens, princess.

The door locks at 8:15.

Don't be late.

Or do.

My breath left my body in one shaky rush.

I stared at the screen until it went dark.

Then I stood up and opened my closet, shoved hangers aside like a madwoman, and pulled out the tightest black dress I owned-the one I bought two years ago hoping Mark would notice.

He never did.

Tonight someone else would.

I was done being the forgiving wife.

I was done being soft and apologetic and quiet.

Tonight at 8 p.m. I was walking into a state-of-the-art gym.

And I was going to let Steve Hayes ruin me in all the ways my husband never bothered to.

Mark wanted me fixed?

Fine.

I'd come back shattered in a brand-new way.

STEVE POV

The text hits at 2:29pm.

"What happens if I come tonight?"

I stare at it until the screen dims. Tap it back on. Still there. 

Ten seconds after I sent "Door locks at 8:15. Don't be late." My thumb is still hovering like she might text back.

I lean back in my office chair. Leather creaks under my weight. The gym's quiet this time-only the low hum of the AC and the occasional clang from someone setting up downstairs. But still my pulse is still louder than both.

She sent it at 2:29.

Middle of the fucking afternoon.

It means she's been sitting with my card all day.

Probably turning it over in her hand, wondering if I'm crazy or just a salesman

Fuck.

I shift in the chair. When my head flashes back to her face. 

I walk up to that house this morning and hand the flyer to the woman at the door-Rebecca, the nanny or maid, whatever she is.

But the instant she takes it, she glances at the house, then mutters under her breath, low but clear enough:

"Right timing. Just when the boss complained about his wife's body."

The words hit like a brick.

I froze for half a second and - complained.

Then Freya steps out into the hallway.

Eyes red. One dry tear on that soft cheek.

And the rest of her-curves, softness, the way she stands like she's trying to take up less space.

And everything clicks.

Rebecca's mutter + Freya's face = he looked at this woman and told her her body was wrong.

My fingers dig into the armrests. Leather groans.

At the moment those tears hit, something in me tears open. I bet she's crying over the shit that scumbag might have said to her. Why the fuck is she crying? I fucking want her to see what her first sight is doing to me-how she stopped my chest cold the second she appeared.

I've seen beautiful women. Never once did one make my throat lock up and my words come out rough like I forgot how to speak normally.

But her?

The second I saw her standing there-shattered, trying to hide it-I lost control of my own damn mouth.

"You're crying?" came out like a growl. Like her pain was suddenly my business.

Because she's beautiful. Not fake, not gym-carved. Real. Soft. The kind of beauty that makes a man want to drop everything and just... look. Protect. Keep.

And Mark?

That fucker looked at the same woman and decided she needed fixing.

Decided she was a problem.

I crack my knuckles. Slow.

He doesn't get to do that.

He doesn't get to make her cry over the exact things that stopped my heart when she stepped out.

Whatever he's blind to, I see.

I see it all.

Her line. Her curve. Every single inch, he's blind to see or hated.

I want to claim it right there.

To show her someone finally sees what's right in front of him-and make sure the only tears she sheds from now on are the kind that come when she's lost in bed.

She tried to push me away.

Her small voice. Shaky.

"I'm married."

"I have a daughter."

It didn't matter.

It only made the pull stronger. Made me want to stand in front of her and block out anyone who ever made her feel less.

The phone stays dark.

I drag a hand over my jaw. Stubble rasps.

Come on, princess.

The moment I saw you, I couldn't think straight.

And I'm not getting that control back until you let me prove what I saw.

The office door bangs open hard enough the frame rattles.

My little sis storms in-Diana, with her usual chaos, phone already waving like a flag, grin wide and bright.

"Bro! Guess what-"

She stops dead. Eyes flick over me: phone gripped tight, jaw locked, the way I'm sitting like I'm coiled to spring.

She tilts her head. "Okay, you look like you're about to either fight someone or fuck someone. Which is it today?"

I don't look up. "Busy."

"Busy staring at your blank phone like it's going to-? Come on, Steve. Well, like I said, guess what? So the guessing is, Flora's back next week. And she's going to have a big house party. She's been asking about you. Like, asking, asking."

I snort once. Short. Sharp.

"So?"

"So you should come! You've been a damn ghost since you opened this place. No dates, no girls, nothing. Your abs are collecting dust, man."

I finally lift my eyes. Meet hers. "Tell Flora I'm good."

Diana groans, dramatic as always. Drops into the chair across the desk anyway. Legs kick up on the edge like she owns the place.

"Good at what? Being a monk? You need a woman, Steve. A real one. Not just the ones who come in for free sessions and bat their lashes."

I stand. The chair scrapes back loudly.

"Found one already."

Her mouth falls open. Eyes go huge.

"Wait. For real? Who? When? Details, now!"

I walk past her. Shoulder clips the doorframe on purpose.

"Lock up if you're last out."

She yells after me down the hallway. "You're not going to tell me?! Steve! Come on!"

I don't answer.

I head straight for the main floor. Lights are half-dim.

I drag one bench to the center-right under the overhead spots-and lie down with my back flat and take seconds to close my eyes. 

Her face appeared, and my chest tightened like a fist. Heat spikes through my arms and my neck. Fingers flex against the bench, reaching for nothing.

Fuck.

I mutter low, rough, and barely audible in the empty gym:

"You're killing me, princess... and you don't even know it yet."