Sext Misfired Husband Cheats Second Chance Burns

"Another night at the office, Viv. Don't wait up."

The text from Crane sat on my screen, cold and predictable. I didn't bother typing a reply. What was the point? I shifted on the velvet cushion of the bay window, the glass chilled by the Thursday night air. My second glass of Merlot was halfway gone, staining the crystal a deep, bruised purple.

I looked down at the streetlamp-lit road three stories below. My mind didn't go to my husband’s mahogany desk or his silent assistant. It went to the grease-stained pavement two blocks away.

I opened my messages and tapped the icon for Margot Reyes. I needed to bleed these thoughts out before they choked me.

"I think I’m losing my mind, Margot," I typed, my thumb flying over the glass. "It’s that man from the repair shop again. Kai Donovan."

I paused, taking a long swallow of wine. The heat of the alcohol emboldened me.

"He was wearing that black leather jacket today. The one with the scuffed elbows. He was leaning against the brick wall, lighting a cigarette, and he didn't even look up when I walked by with the trash. But I saw his jaw. It’s so sharp it looks like it could cut skin. And his hands… Margot, they were covered in engine oil. Dark, thick smears across his knuckles."

I felt a flush creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the wine.

"I keep imagining those oil-stained hands on me. I want him to press me against the cold metal of a car hood and just take what he wants. I want to feel that grit against my skin. I want him to stop being polite and just ruin me."

I stared at the paragraph. It was scandalous. It was pathetic. It was exactly how I felt. I hit the blue arrow and watched the bubble fly upward.

Then I looked at the name at the top of the screen.

It wasn't Margot Reyes.

The name staring back at me, bold and terrifying, was Kai Donovan.

"Oh, God," I whispered.

The room seemed to tilt. I scrambled to tap the message, my fingers shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. *Delete. Delete for everyone.*

*The time limit for unsending this message has expired.*

The blue bubble sat there, a permanent confession of my deepest, filthiest desire. I had added him to my contacts three weeks ago when he’d patched my tire. Donovan. Reyes. They were right next to each other in the list.

My stomach gave a violent, watery heave.

I dropped the phone on the window seat and bolted for the master bathroom. I barely made it to the porcelain sink before the wine and the bile forced their way up. I gripped the marble counter, my knuckles white, as I retched into the basin. The acidic burn in my throat matched the searing heat of my shame.

I rinsed my mouth, splashing cold water over my face until