Page 51 of Shattered Dreams

Panic owns his face before he stumbles over his words, unable to believe his little wife would say such a thing.

Well, I’m not his little wife anymore, am I?

I’m a woman fucking scorned, and he will pay.

"Fall in love with me again. I swear, I'll make you fall for me again. I'll be better?—"

"Better?" I look at him steadily. "I don’t think that would be hard, would it? Maybe when you meet someone else, you should keep your dick in your pants."

"Someone else? Ava—" He glares at me before reaching out to grab my wrist. “That’s never going to fucking happen.”

"Honestly, maybe you should go back to Annie." I tug my wrist from his grip as he chokes on air.

“Ava, for fucks sake?—”

My phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at it—a text from Adam confirming our dinner plans.

Perfect timing.

I look back at Roman, and for the first time since this conversation started, I feel a small sense of victory. He glares down at my phone, but I hold it tight, daring him to challenge me.

“I’m going out tonight. I wouldn’t wait up if I were you.”

“Ava! You can’t be fucking serious!” he growls, his face reddening as I ignore him, picking up my coffee and heading back upstairs.

Maybe I’ll go to the salon, get my hair done. Nails too. Because why the fuck not?

He wants me back, does he? Let's see how much he really wants me when he realizes other men value whathethrew away.

19

AVA

There’s something therapeutic about mascara.

It’s like war paint. I make slow, deliberate strokes, darkening my lashes as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

I lookgood.

I take my time curling my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders the way Roman always liked—except this time, I’m not doing it for him.

This time, it’s for me, and maybe Adam.

And if Roman notices? That’s his problem. He would be fucking me in this dress if he wasn’t such a cheating bastard.

This is hisfavouritedress.

The dress is red and tight inallthe right places, hugging my curves. I slip it on, smoothing it over my hips, letting it cling to my body like a second skin.

Then I add lipstick—blood red, just to match.

There’s a faint knock on the door behind me before it opens.

I don’t have to look. I alreadyknowit’s him.

This is the thing about marriage—you end up knowing everything about each other—including how they knock. A pangof sadness pools in my stomach, but I refuse to let it ruin my night.

“What is it?” I ask, still watching myself in the mirror. My heart pounds beneath his heated gaze, but I force myself to sayhername in my head, reminding myself whathedid to me.