Richard Davenport sipped his scotch, scrolling through last night’s photos of Marissa—the girl he’d bumped into. Legs for days, a trust fund, and more sense than Jenna ever had.
The phone buzzed, cutting through his daydream.
Jenna:
Madeline came to the salon. She humiliated me. I’m so scared. Please call me.
Richard exhaled sharply, setting his glass down harder than necessary.
Christ. This again.
Another buzz.
Jenna:
She said awful things. I didn’t know what to do. I feel so alone.
He stared at the screen, feeling nothing but a deep, crawling annoyance. Hadn’t he made himself clear? They were over. He’d ended things a week ago—a clean break, wrapped in half-hearted apologies and mumbled lies about “needing to focus on his marriage.” It’s just so damn hard when you’ve got a woman
