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Chapter 1- Zane

I should’ve listened to my parents.

They warned me about my husband, Mark. They told me he was too old for me.Fifteen years is too big of a gap, Zane. He’s already lived a whole life before you, my momma had said. But I was young, starry-eyed, and sad. Lonely.

I had grown up an only child in a strict house full of rules, schedules, and expectations. My parents were lawyers, educated, brilliant, relentless. They preached Black excellence. They were strict. My parents weren’t mean, but they were just indifferent sometimes. They had provided for me, given me everything I could need. Everything but them. I spent too many dinners alone, too many nights in a big house that echoed with silence.

I didn’t have many friends. My parents stayed in the poor neighborhood they grew up in. All the kids there thought that because I had more than them, I thought I was better than them. It was like my parents wanted my life to be hard.

I just had Tacora, my best friend since childhood. We used to talk about starting a business together, fixing up old houses, making them beautiful again. But she had to leave Florida when her mom couldn’t afford to stay—when we were sixteen. That devastated me. I had never felt so alone.

Then Mark came along.

He was a junior partner at the firm my mother made me intern at. He was confident, powerful, handsome. And he noticed me.

He wooed me with expensive gifts, dinners at restaurants every night, late-night drives in his brand-new Bentley with music playing low in the background, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. He told me I was beautiful, that I was special, that I wasn’t like other girls my age—I was mature, sophisticated. A woman.

And I believed him.

By the time we got to the sexual part of our relationship, a month after meeting, I was already gone. I was in love.

Then I had sex for the first time.

I had thought it would be bad, like in the movies. But Mark took his time, guiding me. He rocked my body, whispering in my ear, talking me through it, telling me what to do, what to feel, what to want.

He taught me to crave it.

And I did.

Then he proposed.

We got married.

My momma had tried to stop me on my wedding day. She said she knew men like Mark. “You think he wants a partner? No, baby. If he did, he would marry his equal. He wants a doll he can brag about. A pretty little thing to sit at home and wait for him.”

I hated her for saying that. Hated her for not believing I was everything Mark had said I was. Hated her for trying to ruin my happiness.

Then, as soon as we were married, everything—the sex, the gifts, the affection, the attention—came to a screeching halt.

My parents were the type of people who saw life in terms of wins and losses. So I grew up thinking I had to win at everything—or it didn’t count. Which was why I fought so hard for Mark.

And I realized how right momma was and wished I hadn’t fought them.

That was six years ago.

Mark could only be bothered with me when he wanted to show me off now.

Tonight, I sat on the edge of the bed, horny and sad, my fingers smoothing over the lace stretched across my thighs. The candles I’d lit flickered around the room, casting shadows on the walls, making everything feel softer, more intimate. I had spent all day preparing—curling my hair, making sure my skin was smooth, my lips full and glossy. My silk lingerie hugged me in all the right places. It was a waste of time.

Mark stood by the dresser, adjusting his watch, barely sparing me a glance. He had come in just an hour ago. Now he was on his way back out.

He looked good in navy slacks fitted perfectly around his hips, his white button-down crisp. He smelled like the cologne I bought him last Christmas.

I swallowed down my pride and decided to ask for what I needed. My pussy was so wet.

"Mark," I called softly, shifting so my thighs pressed together. "Come here for a second."

His eyes flicked toward me, then back to the mirror as he fixed his cuffs. "I have to go soon."