Page 56 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

So thanks for 'outgrowing' me, Camden. Because I'm about to grow right into the kind of woman who remembers what it's like to be desired, not just tolerated.

The kind who says yes to everything you were too weak to ask for.

The kind who realizes that 'comfortable' was just your word for 'too cowardly to handle a woman who knows what she wants. '

I pause, rereading what I've written. There's a small voice in the back of my mind—the old Cassie—whispering that this is too much, that I'm going too far. But I silence her with another gulp of wine. What do I have to lose at this point?

Enjoy explaining to your next girlfriend why she's not allowed to make noise during sex. I'll be too busy making someone else lose his mind to care.

"This is legendary," Olivia declares, refilling my glass in celebration. "Send it!"

I squint at the screen, my vision blurring slightly from the wine and unshed tears. I carefully enter Camden's number, pressing each one carefully, determined to get it right. I’m proud of myself for remembering all ten digits despite my current state.

"Send it!" Olivia says without hesitation. "Send it and burn that bridge to glorious ashes."

I squint at the number I've entered, my current state making the digits swim slightly.

7...2...5...

My vision blurs slightly. Is that the right sequence? I rub my eyes and try to focus.

...5...9...0...8

Wait, that doesn't look right. Is Camden's number 5908 or 5098 at the end? I can't remember.

"Just send it already!" Olivia urges, pouring herself another glass.

"Hold on, I'm trying to get his number right," I mumble, peering at the screen.

"Who cares? It's your final communication. Dramatic exit, stage left." She makes a sweeping gesture that nearly knocks over the empty white wine bottle.

I shrug. It's probably right. Or close enough. I take one last look at my message—part angry manifesto, part explicit declaration of independence—and hit send before I can second-guess myself.

The whoosh of the sent message brings immediate satisfaction, followed seconds later by creeping anxiety.

I shove away my unease. "Wait," I say, a dangerous smile tugging at my lips. "I'm not done."

"Ooh," Olivia perks up. "I like that look. What are you thinking?"

Instead of answering, I stand up—wobbling only slightly—and head to her bathroom mirror. Olivia follows, wine glass in hand, clearly intrigued.

"He always loved these," I say, adjusting my emerald dress to show more cleavage than Camden ever let me display in public. "Said they were 'distracting' when I wore anything low-cut."

"They are spectacular," Olivia agrees matter-of-factly. "Document them. For posterity. And revenge."

I laugh, the sound foreign to my own ears after tonight. I adjust the neckline again, leaning forward just enough to create that perfect curve of cleavage—the kind of shot that's sinful without being vulgar.

The lighting in Olivia's bathroom is surprisingly flattering, and the emerald fabric makes my skin glow.

"You know what? Yes." I hand Olivia my phone. "Take the picture. No face, obviously. Just enough to make him realize exactly what he's never going to see again."

Olivia positions herself, clearly having done this before for her own dating adventures. "On three. Give me your best 'look what you're missing' energy."

I lean forward slightly, the dress creating the perfect frame. Click.

"Oh, that's good," Olivia grins, showing me the result. "That's really good. Like, damn-girl good."

She's right. The photo captures just enough—the curve of my breasts in the jewel-toned fabric, the delicate chain of my necklace catching the light, the suggestion of what lies beneath without revealing too much.

It's tasteful but undeniably sexy. The kind of picture that whispers promises while delivering a final fuck-you.

"Perfect," I breathe, attaching it to my final message:

You can think about this every night when you’re alone with your predictable new girlfriend.

The small voice in my head—the one that's been with me all night—pipes up again. This isn't you, Cassie. You don't send pictures like this.

But wine and heartbreak have a way of drowning out voices like that. Besides, maybe this IS me. Maybe it's been me all along, just waiting for permission to stop being so goddamn careful.

"Last chance to back out," Olivia says, though her tone suggests she hopes I won't.

I look at the message—explicit, defiant, with photographic evidence of what Camden claimed wasn't worth fighting for. My finger hovers over send.

"No," I say firmly. "He wanted someone who pushes boundaries? Let him see exactly what that looks like."

I hit send before I can overthink it.

All of a sudden, the left side of my brain kicks in. "Oh god," I stare at my phone. "What did I just do?"

"You just took back your power," Olivia says with drunken conviction. "You just told him exactly who Cassie Monroe really is."

"But what if—" I'm cut off by Olivia plucking the phone from my hands.

"No what-ifs. No checking for replies. This was for you, not him." She places my phone on her highest bookshelf, well out of tipsy-reach. "Now, we finish this bottle, watch something with explosions, and pass out on the couch like the independent women we are."

She's right. It doesn't matter if Camden responds or not. The message wasn't really for him—it was for me. For the woman I've been suppressing to make him comfortable. For the creative, passionate person I used to be before I started making myself smaller.

As we settle in with the last of the wine and an action movie with improbable physics, a strange sense of liberation washes over me.

I'd walked out of that restaurant feeling like Camden had taken something from me.

Now, with my unfiltered thoughts sent out into the universe, I feel like I've taken something back.

But in the quiet moments between explosions and witty one-liners, that small voice returns. The old Cassie, the careful one, wonders if I've just made a terrible mistake. Have I gone too far? Was that really me writing those things?

The wine has turned my internal filter off completely, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this isn't exactly who I am either.

I'm not the woman who picks up strangers in bars or lets them touch me in dark corners. But maybe I'm also not the woman who needs to be quiet during sex or follow a schedule for intimacy.

Maybe I'm somewhere in between—bold enough to know what I want but still hoping to find someone who will appreciate all of me, not just the parts that are convenient or comfortable.

My phone, forgotten on Olivia's bookshelf, sits silently in the dark.

The message sent, not to Camden's number that I'd memorized but thought I'd forgotten, but to another number entirely—one digit off, one mistake away from changing everything.