Please Take Me Back Scarlett!

Scarlett. The silk sheets were cold against my skin. Wrong. Everything about this felt wrong. I opened my eyes to floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan, the morning sun casting golden light across water that sparkled like broken promises. Adrian's bedroom. The one place in this massive penthouse I'd sworn I'd never be again after our wedding night four years ago. Heat flooded my face as memories crashed over me. Last night. Wine. His hands tangled in my hair. His mouth on my neck. His voice—rough and wanting—whispering my name like it meant something. God, what had I done? I turned my head on the pillow, and there he was. Adrian Pierre, my husband in name only, sleeping like he hadn't just shattered what little dignity I had left. His jet-black hair fell across his forehead, softening features that were usually sharp enough to cut glass. His olive skin was warm against the white sheets. Even in sleep, his jaw was tight, like he was solving problems in his dreams. I hated that he was beautiful. Hated that some traitorous part of me still noticed. I needed to leave. Now. Before he woke up and looked at me with those steel-gray eyes that could freeze a person solid. Moving carefully, I started to slide out of bed. Every muscle in my body ached—a reminder of exactly how thorough last night had been. My face burned hotter. Wine. It was the wine's fault. Three glasses had turned into five, and five had turned into his hands cupping my face, his forehead pressed to mine, his whispered "Stay" that had demolished every wall I'd built. Like I'd ever meant something to him. My foot touched the cold marble floor when his voice cut through the silence. "Scarlett." I froze. That voice—rough from sleep but already edged with ice. Already building walls again. "Good morning," I whispered, clutching the sheet to my chest like armor. Adrian sat up slowly, the sheet pooling at his waist. He ran a hand through his hair, making it messier, and still wouldn't look at me. Not really. His eyes slid over me like I was part of the furniture he was cataloging. "Last night was a mistake." The words hit me like a physical blow, even though I'd been thinking the same thing seconds ago. Hearing him say it made something crack inside my chest—something I didn't know I still had left to break. "I know." My voice came out steady. Small miracle. "I was drunk. You were drunk." He stood abruptly, turning his back to me as he grabbed sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on. "It shouldn't have happened." Four years of marriage, and this was what I got. Clinical assessment. Cold dismissal. Efficient damage control. "Right." I spotted my nightgown draped over the leather chair, and lunged for it, pulling it over my head with hands that shook despite my best efforts. "It won't happen again." "Good." That single word—flat, final, completely unbothered—shattered something fundamental inside me. Not my heart. That had broken so long ago I couldn't remember what whole felt like. This was something deeper. My last thread of hope, maybe. The pathetic little voice that had whispered maybe this time, maybe he'll see you, maybe he'll care. Silenced forever. "I'm going to shower." I walked to the door on legs that barely held me, praying I wouldn't stumble. Praying I'd make it to my room before the tears came. "In my room." He was already checking his phone, thumb scrolling, completely done with me. "Fine." I left without another word, without looking back, because what was the point? The hallway stretched endlessly before me—all black granite and steel accents and abstract art that probably cost more than my parents' house. Minimalist. Expensive. Soulless. Just like the man who lived here. Our wedding photo hung near the guest wing entrance. I used to stop and look at it every day, remembering how happy I'd been. How in love. How certain that his intensity and drive would eventually include space for me. I'd stopped looking months ago. That smiling girl in white was a stranger. Someone foolish enough to believe Adrian Pierre could love anyone more than his empire. My room—the guest room I'd been exiled to since day one, despite his promises that it was temporary—was exactly as I'd left it. Unmade bed where I'd tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Romance novel on the nightstand, bookmark halfway through a story where the hero actually loved the heroine. My laptop still open on the desk, browser tabs showing the marketing proposals I'd been pretending to work on while actually researching divorce lawyers. The divorce papers. They were in the bottom drawer, where I'd kept them for three months. Three months of carrying them around, rewriting my signature, working up the courage to actually serve them. I'd been planning to do it this week. Valentine's Day week. Seemed fitting, in a horrible way. But then last night happened, and now I felt even more pathetic than before. I sank onto the edge of my bed and reached for my phone on the nightstand. Maybe scrolling mindlessly through social media would distract me from the fact that I'd just slept with my emotionally abusive husband who'd called it a mistake before I'd even gotten out of bed. The notification made my blood run cold. @AdrianPierre tagged in 47 new photos Something icy slithered down my spine. My hands trembled as I opened i********:. The first image loaded, and the world tilted sideways. Adrian. In a tuxedo that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. At some kind of gala—champagne glasses, string lights, beautiful people in evening wear. His hand rested on a woman's back. A woman in a red dress that hugged every curve. Veronica Sterling. I knew that face. Knew that name. Heiress. Socialite. The woman the tabloids had been linking to Adrian for months. The woman I'd pretended not to notice. The woman Adrian had assured me was "just business" when I'd finally worked up the courage to ask. My fingers swiped. Photo after photo. Adrian and Veronica laughing. Adrian and Veronica standing close. Adrian and Veronica looking at each other like I didn't exist. The caption read: Valentine's Day Charity Gala at The Astoria Grand - 14th & 15th February The timestamp at the bottom: 9:47 PM Last night. These were from last night. Before he came home. Before the wine. Before he'd touched me like I mattered. He'd spent Valentine's Day with Veronica Sterling, then came home and crawled into bed with his wife like I was some kind of consolation prize. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up. When I could breathe again, I gripped the cold porcelain sink and stared at my reflection. Red-rimmed emerald eyes. Pale skin. Tangled auburn hair that he'd run his fingers through just hours ago. I looked exactly like what I was—a woman who'd been made a complete fool of. But as I stared at that broken reflection, something shifted inside me. The anger came then. Not the sad, defeated kind I'd been carrying for months. This was hot and bright and clarifying. This was fury. I walked back to the desk with purpose. Pulled open the bottom drawer. The divorce papers sat there, my signature already dried on every page that needed it. All that was missing was Adrian's. I'd been too scared to serve them. Scared of the finality. Scared of admitting failure. Scared that some pathetic part of me still loved the man I'd married, even if that man had never really existed. But that was before. Before he'd called last night a mistake. Before I'd seen him with her. I grabbed my phone and searched: red dresses Chicago same day delivery. If Adrian thought he could humiliate me, he had another think coming. I was going to that gala tonight. I was going to walk in there looking like fire itself. And I was going to serve those divorce papers in front of every person who mattered in his world. Let's see him call that a mistake.