Swapping Lives With My Cold Ex-Husband

Dara stood in front of the marble kitchen island, carefully stirring the French seafood soup in the heavy cast-iron pot.

The rich scent of saffron and simmering broth filled the air, but her stomach remained tied in tight, anxious knots.

She glanced at the vintage clock on the wall. Ten minutes until Donavon promised he would be home.

The low, aggressive growl of a sports car engine vibrated through the floorboards.

Dara's heart seized violently, a habitual sliver of expectation tangling with the familiar, suffocating tension that always gripped her. She untied her apron, tossing it onto the counter, and hurried toward the entryway.

The heavy oak door swung open.

It wasn't Donavon.

Keven Monroe stumbled into the foyer, reeking of expensive bourbon and stale cigar smoke. His custom-tailored suit jacket hung off his shoulder.

He didn't bother wiping his shoes. His mud-caked leather loafers stepped directly onto the priceless Persian rug.

"Keven, please take off your shoes," Dara said, her voice tight.

Keven let out a harsh, wet laugh. He looked her up and down with bloodshot eyes.

"You're a glorified maid with a prenup, Dara. You don't get to tell me what to do in my family's house."

He pushed past her, his shoulder intentionally clipping hers, and walked straight into the kitchen.

"I'm starving," Keven slurred, eyeing the stove. "Let's see what the help cooked up."

"Stop," Dara stepped in front of him. "That dinner is for Donavon."

Keven's eyes darkened. A vicious, ugly gleam flashed in his pupils.

He reached out and grabbed the handle of the boiling cast-iron pot.

"Don't touch that, it's hot!" Dara gasped, lunging forward to steady the heavy pot before he tipped it over.

Keven looked right into her eyes. He let go of the handle.

And then, with a subtle flick of his wrist, he pushed it.

The heavy pot tilted off the burner. Boiling, thick seafood soup cascaded over the edge, splashing directly onto the back of Dara's right hand and forearm.

"Ah!" Dara sucked in a sharp, ragged breath.

Her lungs seized. The pain was instantaneous and blinding, a searing heat that melted into her nerve endings. Her skin turned an angry, blistering red within seconds.

Keven shrugged, his hands raised in mock surrender. "Oops. My hand slipped."

The sharp, rhythmic clicking of stiletto heels echoed against the marble floor.

Jacquelin Hammond walked into the kitchen, freezing as she took in the mess.

"My Italian cabinets!" Jacquelin shrieked, her face twisting in horror.

Dara clutched her burning arm against her chest, her breathing shallow. "Jacquelin, Keven pushed the-"

"Shut up!" Jacquelin snapped, cutting her off. "You can't even hold a pot of soup without making a disaster. You are an embarrassment to this family."

Jacquelin marched up to Dara, jabbing a manicured finger hard into Dara's uninjured shoulder.

"Read that prenup again, Dara. If you can't even serve my stepson a proper meal, I will have you thrown out of this estate with nothing but the clothes on your back."

Dara bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper.

She lowered her eyes, staring at the puddle of soup on the floor. She forced her muscles to relax, swallowing the bile and rage rising in her throat.

"I'm sorry," Dara whispered. "I'll clean it up immediately."

Jacquelin let out a satisfied, cold huff. She turned on her heel, grabbing Keven by the arm, and dragged him out of the kitchen.

The moment their footsteps faded, the submissive slump in Dara's shoulders vanished.

Her eyes turned dead and calculating.

She walked quickly to the sink and turned on the cold water, shoving her blistering arm under the freezing stream.

Gritting her teeth against the blinding agony, she forced herself to endure the searing heat without making another sound. She pulled a roll of gauze from the first-aid drawer. Her hands shook violently, but her resolve was absolute. She bit one end of the white gauze with her teeth and used her trembling left hand to clumsily, yet tightly, wrap the fabric around the blistering red skin. She pulled it taut, tying a crude but secure knot to seal the wound away from prying eyes. It wasn't elegant, but it was born of a desperate need to survive this house.

She yanked the sleeve of her silk blouse down, completely hiding the bandage.

Dropping to her knees, she grabbed a towel and began wiping the greasy broth off the floor, perfectly resuming the role of the pathetic, clumsy housewife.

Outside, the distinct, purring engine of an Aston Martin pulled up the driveway.

Dara's hand stopped moving.