Chapter 3: Beautiful mistakes.
647 Words
Seraphina
Seraphina woke up knowing three things immediately.
One: she was alive, unfortunately.
Two: her head felt like it had been used as a ceremonial island drum.
Three: this was not her room.
Her eyes cracked open to a ceiling that was offensively high. Tasteful. Expensive. The kind of ceiling that had never known stress or poor decisions.
She groaned and turned her head.
Crimson silk curtains. Black marble floors. Furniture arranged with military precision. Everything sleek. Minimal. Controlled.
Annoyingly… beautiful.
“Even the room is judging me,” she muttered.
She tried to sit up and instantly regretted it.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she hissed, clutching her head. “Who authorized tequila, wine, mystery island brew, and ego?”
She pulled the sheets tighter—and froze.
She was naked.
Stark. Entirely. Tragically naked.
Her heart slammed into her ribs as she scanned the room like it might cough up answers. On the bedside table sat a glass of water and two tablets of aspirin, laid out with calm, infuriating consideration.
Someone had planned for her hangover.
With the recklessness of someone already too far gone, she grabbed the glass, swallowed the pills dry, and drank deeply—
Just as the bathroom door opened.
Seraphina choked.
The stranger stepped out like he’d been summoned by her panic.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Hair damp. A towel slung low on his hips, doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he was unfairly built by the gods with malicious intent.
They locked eyes.
Time stalled.
And then—
Everything came rushing back.
The beach lights.
The pearl garlands.
The taste of honey and fire on her tongue.
His hand at the small of her back, steady and warm.
The shuttle ride where they'd very nearly torn the clothes off each others backs.
The way the air between them had snapped the moment the door to this villa closed.
Her gaze dropped—traitorously, helplessly—to the sharp V of his lower abdomen.
Oh.
Oh no.
She remembered.
Blurred details—feelings. Heat. Hunger. The way they’d laughed like enemies and kissed like they’d run out of time. How annoyance had turned into something reckless and consuming within minutes.
He was the best kisser she'd ever had.
She'd didn’t let herself remember how good he could use that tongue.
His voice broke the silence.
“You’re awake.”
“Unfortunately,” she croaked.
He leaned against the doorframe, studying her with those unreadable eyes. “Water and aspirin.”
“I noticed,” she said. “Very serial-killer considerate of you.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “You asked for them.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Very firmly. Twice.”
She dropped her head back onto the pillow. “I don't think I love Calypso anymore.”She groaned.
Silence stretched again—thick, awkward, vibrating with unspoken things.
Then she whispered, “We didn’t—”
He answered calmly, “ Oh we did.”He said,teasing a smirk,making his very annoying dimple more pronounced than it already was.
She closed her eyes. “Of course we did.”
“And,” he added, “you were the one who said—”
“Please don’t,” she begged.
“—that if we were going to ruin our lives, we might as well commit ,which might I add we did ,very ,very thoroughly infact.”
She laughed weakly. “That sounds like me.”
His gaze softened, just a little bit. “You don’t remember everything.”
“No,” she admitted. “Just enough to know I enjoyed it. Which is worse.”
He straightened. “Get dressed. We need to talk.”
Her heart sank. “About…?” How was he not hungover?
He met her eyes, voice steady, devastatingly serious.
“Our marriage.”
Silence.
Then—
“My WHAT?”
- Writer
