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."

FREYA

I'm done dressing up. I slip into the black dress-the one that hugs my body tightly.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom, far from the master suite. Mark's cologne still lingers in the air there,  and I hate that. That's how much I despise him now.

The fabric stretches tight across my hips, dips low between my breasts, and ends high on my thighs. I haven't worn it since the night I bought it two years ago-hopeful and stupid, waiting for Mark to look at me the way he used to. Or the way I thought he used to.

He never did.

Tonight the dress isn't for him.

I smooth my palms down the sides, feeling the tremor in my fingers. I step back and study the woman in the mirror. I've always wanted to step out like this, but stupid me wanted to do it with my husband.

The same husband that has been secretly ashamed of me

Now, looking at myself, a sudden question crawls into my heart: Am I really out of shape?

My phone buzzes, snapping me out before the thought can spiral too far.

I rush to the dresser and grab it.

Mark:

 Running late at the office. Luna's already at Lila's for movie night + pizza. You know she loves to be with her. Don't wait up.

No "love you" this time.

Good.

I type one word.

Me:

 Okay.

Then I delete the entire thread. I block his number. I don't even know why-let's call it anger. My thumb hovers over "Luna - My cutie" in contacts... but I can't bring myself to block my own child.

Instead I text Rebecca:

Me:

 I'm going out tonight. Luna's with her dad. If anything changes, call me immediately.

Rebecca:

 Understood ma'am. Be safe. ❤️

I exhale through my mouth like I'm blowing out birthday candles I never got to make wishes on.

The clock on the wall reads 7:12 p.m.

Forty-eight minutes until the gym door locks.

I slip on my only pair of heels-red, with thin ankle straps. I spray the perfume I stopped wearing because Mark once said it gave him a headache.

I grab my keys, the matte black card, and leave through the side door so the security lights won't catch my silhouette slipping away like a guilty teenager.

I drive following the address on the card. After a short drive, State-of-the-Art Gym sits on the corner of a newly developed strip. It's not a big building-glass front, black steel accents, bright neon sign. A single motorcycle is parked diagonally across two spaces.

Of course it's his.

I kill the engine and sit there, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turn white.

You can still leave, Freya. You still have a chance.

Just drive home. Cry in the shower. Pretend this morning never happened.

I'm still staring at the gym when Mark's voice from this morning slices through again:

"Maybe if you worked on yourself."

And Lila's laugh from that sex video-sharp, victorious, unbothered.

I don't know if it's rage or something else, but it surges through me. I open the car door instantly. The night air smells like concrete cooling and distant rain.

The gym doors are unlocked.

Inside it's darker than I expected-only emergency strips and a few overhead spots still on. Weights gleam under low light. Mirrors everywhere. The faint smell of rubber mats, metal, and sharp cologne.

No one at the front desk. Just the low hum of the air conditioner.

I'm still looking around when I hear boots-heavy, deliberate-coming from the hallway that leads to the offices.

The next second, Steve appears.

No gym shirt this time.

Just black joggers slung low on his hips and nothing else.

The tattoo sleeve on his left arm continues across his chest-one long thin line under his left pec, another across his lower ribs.

He doesn't smile. He just looks at me.

Slowly.

His eyes travel from the red heels, up the black dress, past the cleavage I suddenly feel too exposed, over the curve of my stomach, and finally to my face.

A slow smirk curves his mouth. It feels almost mocking, but there's something darker in it I can't name.

"This doesn't look like gym attire, princess."

The words land like a spotlight in my ears. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I suddenly feel ridiculous-overdressed, overdone, like a woman playing pretend. What the hell was I thinking, showing up in heels and a tight dress like some desperate cliché?

I take a step back toward the door.

"I'm sorry, I should go," I whisper, voice small. "This was a mistake. I don't know what I'm doing here."

My hand reaches for the handle. My pulse hammers. I could still leave. Drive home, delete his number, pretend none of this happened.

"You look sexy."

His voice stops me cold.

Sexy.

It hits my chest like a warm wave. When was the last time anyone called me that? Mark hadn't said anything close in years-not before Luna, not after.

The only compliment he ever gave was "You look better." Just... better.

I turn back to look at Steve. A single tear slips free, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it.

The instant he notices, his smirk vanishes. His expression darkens-that same feral protectiveness from this morning flashing across his face. He closes the distance in two strides-slow enough that I could back away, fast enough that I don't want to.

I wipe the tear quickly, but another follows.

My vision blurs. Tears slip free, hot and fast, carving wet lines down my cheeks.

He stops just in front of me. Lifts his hand. His thumb catches the tear before it reaches my jaw.

"Is this a tear?" he murmurs, voice gravel and smoke.