Page 57 of Ruined by My Ex’s Dad (Silver Fox Obsession #2)

Cassie

The Last Humilation

M orning arrives like a sledgehammer to my skull. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it.

Sunlight streams through Olivia's non-existent curtains with aggressive intensity. My mouth tastes like wine-soaked gym socks, and my head pounds like a bass drum.

I'm still wearing last night's dress, now impressively wrinkled and sporting what appears to be a splash of red wine across the bodice. So much for half my paycheck.

"Morning, sunshine!" Olivia chirps, appearing with two coffee mugs and looking irritatingly fresh-faced. "How's the head?"

"Somewhere between 'hit by a truck' and 'please let me die quietly,'" I groan, accepting the coffee like it's a lifeline. "How are you so... functional?"

"Years of practice," she shrugs, perching on the armrest. "Plus, I stopped drinking when you started composing erotic literature to your ex."

Oh god. The text. Last night comes rushing back in humiliating technicolor.

"Please tell me I didn't send that," I whisper, though I already know the answer.

"You absolutely did," Olivia confirms cheerfully. "And it was magnificent."

I bury my face in my hands. "I need to check my phone."

Olivia retrieves it from the bookshelf where she'd stashed it last night. "No response, in case you're wondering. Probably shocked him into silence."

I scroll through my notifications—three missed calls from Mia, a "thinking of you" text from other friends, and nothing from Camden.

Then I remember with a jolt of mild relief that I'd probably gotten his number wrong anyway. The bourbon bottle we'd moved on to after the wine is currently taking its revenge on my ability to form coherent thoughts, but I vaguely recall squinting at my phone, uncertain about the digits.

"I think I messed up his number," I admit. "I was pretty gone by then."

"Probably for the best," Olivia says. "This way you get the catharsis without the awkward aftermath."

I nod, wincing as the movement sends pain ricocheting through my skull. "I need to go get some of my stuff today. Clothes, my laptop, work files. The essentials."

"Want me to come with? I can be your emotional support person slash bodyguard."

"Thanks, but I need to do this myself." I take a fortifying sip of coffee. "Besides, he'll be at work. In and out, ten minutes tops."

"Okay, but I'm on standby if needed. One SOS text and I'll be there with reinforcements and possibly a bat."

I shower at Olivia's, borrowing clothes distinctly not my style—ripped jeans and a crop-topped vintage band tee. Anything is better than yesterday's dress, which now feels like it's soaked in expensive champagne and disappointment.

"Are you ok to drive this morning?” Olivia asks.

Right. Details from last night are still foggy, but I vaguely recall driving to Olivia’s house.

"Yes. And I owe you," I tell her. "Big time."

"You can repay me by stealing his favorite coffee mug," she says with a wink.

The drive to my—to Camden's—apartment feels surreal. Has it really been less than 24 hours since I left here, excited about our anniversary dinner, blissfully unaware that my relationship was already over?

My key still works, which is something. I half expected Camden to have changed the locks overnight, as if my existence needed to be erased immediately.

The apartment is silent as I enter, exactly as we left it. The minimalist furniture. The strategically placed art pieces. The complete absence of comfort or personality.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mia:

“How are you holding up? Need help moving? I can skip class!’

I send back a quick

I'm okay. Don't skip class. Love you

. The last thing I need is for Mia to see me falling apart.

Camden's voice echoes in my head: The fashion industry isn't exactly known for its stability. As if my helping Mia with tuition was some frivolous indulgence rather than supporting her undeniable talent. Just one more way he'd made me doubt myself.

I head to the spare bedroom, the silence oppressive after two years of careful coexistence. Our apartment—my apartment for a few more minutes—feels smaller somehow, like the walls are closing in with the memory of all the nights I lay awake wondering why things felt so empty.

I'm in the closet in the spare bedroom my makeshift studio where I stored all of my clothes, loading the duffel bag. Thats when I hear it—a sound from the master bedroom around the corner. Like someone clearing their throat.

Or moaning.

My blood turns to ice.

Then more movement. Sheets rustling. A feminine gasp that definitely isn't mine.

My heart drops to the floor.

Oh no. Oh god. No.

Time stops.

My heart stutters. "Camden?" I call out, confused. He should be at the office. It's barely 10 AM on a weekday.

No response, but there's definitely movement from the bedroom. Great. He's ignoring me now? After dumping me at our anniversary dinner?

Anger propels me forward, my hangover temporarily forgotten. I march toward the bedroom, ready for round two of telling Camden Sullivan exactly what I think of him.

I push open the door without knocking.

Time stops.

Camden is there, alright. Very much there. And he's not alone.

He's in our bed—the one we bought together at that pretentious home store where he insisted on testing fifteen different mattresses while the salespeople hovered nearby.

He's in our bed with a woman.

A woman wearing what appears to be my silk robe.

They're in the middle of... well, it's obvious what they're in the middle of.

"Cassie!" Camden yelps, scrambling to cover himself. The woman—petite, dark-haired, with the same high cheekbones as me but a much more expensive haircut—lets out a little shriek and dives under the covers.

I stand frozen in the doorway, clutching my duffel bag like it might somehow protect me from this scene.

"I—" Camden starts, his face flushed. "This isn't?—"

"Oh my god," I interrupt, a bizarre laugh bubbling up in my throat. "You're seriously going to say 'this isn't what it looks like' right now? While you're literally having sex with someone else in our bed?"

"I thought you were staying at Olivia's." As if that explains rather than confirms his guilt.

The woman peeks out from under the covers, looking mortified. "You said you were single," she whispers accusingly to Camden.

"He is," I say flatly. "As of last night. Congratulations on the promotion."

Her eyes widen. "Last night? You broke up with her last night?" She turns to Camden, outrage replacing embarrassment. "What the hell, Camden? You said it had been over for months!"

And there it is. The final piece of the puzzle, slotting into place with sickening clarity.

"Months," I repeat, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

Camden has the decency to look away, unable to meet either of our gazes. "Jenna, please?—"

"Don't 'Jenna please' me," she snaps, gathering the sheets around her as she climbs out of bed. My sheets. On my side of the bed. "You told me you ended things before we even started. You said she knew!"

"I did end things," Camden protests weakly. "Emotionally, I mean."

I should be screaming. I should be throwing things. Instead, I feel oddly calm, like I'm watching this scene unfold from somewhere far away.

"How long?" I ask, surprised by the steadiness of my voice.

Camden fidgets with the edge of the comforter. "Cassie, does it really matter? We've moved on now, and?—"

"Three months," Jenna cuts in, gathering her clothes from the floor. My floor. "Since the Palmer case. I'm sorry. I really thought... I didn't know."

Three months. While I was researching anniversary gifts and helping him prepare for his partnership interview. While I was making myself smaller, quieter, more palatable.

He was with her.

"You can keep the robe," I tell Jenna, oddly fixated on this detail. "It never suited me anyway."

She looks stricken, clutching my silk robe to her chest. "I didn't... I wouldn't have..."

"I know," I say, and I do. Her shock seems genuine. She was played too, just differently. "This isn't on you."

I turn my attention back to Camden, who's attempting to look dignified while clutching a sheet around his waist.

"I came to get my things. I'll arrange for the rest to be picked up next week."

"Cassie," he tries again, with that placating tone I've heard so many times before.

"Let's be adults about this. We can discuss the logistics later when things have calmed down."

"There's nothing to discuss." I adjust the strap of my duffel bag. "And Camden? When you said you needed someone who 'pushes boundaries' last night, you could have just said you needed someone who doesn't mind when you cheat on your girlfriend. Would have saved us both a lot of time."

I turn to leave, then pause at the doorway. "Please have the rest of my things packed by Friday. I've already deleted your number, so don't bother contacting me."

I walk out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, closing the door with a soft click that feels more final than any slam could have been.

It isn't until I'm back in my car that the full weight of what just happened hits me. I grip the steering wheel, waiting for the tears to come, for the breakdown that seems inevitable after such humiliation.

But instead of tears, laughter bubbles up—slightly hysterical, edge-of-sanity laughter. The kind that starts deep in your belly and rises until you're gasping for air.

Because really, what are the odds?

Anniversary dinner breakup followed by walking in on him with someone else less than twelve hours later? It's so perfectly, cinematically awful that it crosses over from tragedy into absurdist comedy.

By the time my laughter subsides, something has shifted inside me. The last lingering doubt, the tiny voice wondering if I could have done something differently, if I could have been enough—it's gone, burned away by the sheer absurdity of catching Camden in the act.

I start the car, pull away from the curb, and don't look back at the building that was my home until yesterday.

Whatever comes next—joblessness, apartment hunting, starting over—it has to be better than the life I was trying to conform into.

Curiosity gnaws at me as I sit at a red light. The mystery number from last night—the one who got my wine-fueled rage manifesto—I never found out who I'd accidentally texted. Without thinking, I tap on that thread and hit the call button.

It rings once, twice, then connects to voicemail.

"You've reached Roman. Leave a message."

My blood freezes. The phone slips from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the dashboard as the light turns green.

The only Roman I know of is Roman Kade.

The Roman Kade.

Have I just sent an explicit sexual fantasy to one of the most powerful men in New York City?

The honking behind me jolts me back to reality. I grab my phone, my hands shaking as I end the call, set the device aside, and drive forward.

My phone buzzes with an incoming message. Probably Mia texting to check on me again. I'll look at it later, when I'm somewhere that doesn't feel like my world has just tilted completely off its axis.

Right now, I just need to drive.

Away from Camden, away from this morning's disaster, away from the knowledge that I've just made the most mortifying mistake of my entire life.