Chapter 4: Just Ms. Cruz
1078 Words
By eight-thirty in the morning, Selena Cruz was no longer the woman who unraveled men with a glance.
She was Ms. Cruz, junior clerk at Hargreeve & Sloan Law Offices—hair pulled into a neat low bun, makeup minimal, heels sensible. Her blouse was buttoned to the collar, her skirt conservative, her posture professional. No silk dresses. No calculated smiles. No lingering touches.
This was the version of herself no one suspected.
The law firm occupied the twelfth floor of a steel-and-glass building downtown, overlooking a city that never slowed long enough to notice the lives being dismantled inside its offices. Selena liked it that way. The anonymity. The order. The illusion that everything could be filed, stamped, and closed.
She powered on her computer and scanned her task list for the day.
• Draft divorce petitions • Organize settlement documents • Schedule mediation hearings • Intake interviews
Divorce was predictable. Painful, yes.. but predictable. There was comfort in that.
She handled paperwork with the same precision she used in her other life, fingers flying across the keyboard as she prepared files that marked the quiet end of marriages. Infidelity clauses. Asset divisions. Custody arrangements.
It was ironic, really.
By day, she processed the wreckage left behind by betrayal.
By night, she caused it.
Or at least—she used to.
Her phone buzzed in her desk drawer. Selena didn’t look at it immediately. She finished attaching a document, sent the email, then finally glanced down.
A message from an unknown number.
I was referred to you. I need help. My husband is cheating. I want him back.
Selena’s lips curved slightly.
There it was.
Sometimes clients found her through whispers, sometimes through patterns she left intentionally—an overheard comment here, a sympathetic look there. Handling divorce papers gave her access, proximity, and credibility. Wives talked. They always did.
She typed a brief response.
I’m available to talk after work. Confidential.
The reply came almost instantly.
Thank you. You don’t know how desperate I am.
Selena slid the phone back into the drawer, heart steadying.
Good.
She needed this.
Not the money. Not really.
She needed the reminder.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and filings. Selena moved efficiently between offices, delivered documents, took notes during a tense mediation where a couple refused to look at each other. She listened as the wife cried softly, the husband stone-faced.
Adrian’s face flickered unbidden in her mind.
Stone-faced.
She shoved the thought away.
At five-thirty sharp, Selena shut down her computer and left the building. She changed in the restroom—heels swapped, hair loosened, lipstick reapplied. By the time she stepped onto the sidewalk, Ms. Cruz the clerk was gone.
She met the client at a quiet wine bar two blocks away.
Her name was Lianne Porter. Early forties. Tasteful clothes. Nervous hands that kept circling the stem of her glass. She smiled too often, the way women did when they were trying not to fall apart.
"Thank you for meeting me," Lianne said. "I don’t even know where to begin."
Selena smiled warmly. The familiar one. The one that said you’re safe with me.
"You already did," she replied. "Just breathe."
Within minutes, Lianne was talking. About her husband, Marcus. A consultant. Long hours. Late nights. A sudden interest in the gym. A phone always facedown.
Selena listened, nodding, asking just enough questions to guide the narrative.
"He still comes home," Lianne said. "He still says he loves me. But I know. I can feel it."
Selena reached across the table, resting her hand lightly over Lianne’s. "You’re not imagining it. And you’re not weak for wanting him back."
Lianne’s eyes filled with tears. "Can you really help me?"
Selena didn’t hesitate. "Yes."
Confidence flowed easily now. This was familiar ground.
They discussed terms. Discretion. Expectations. About the limitations of her work, Selena explained her methods carefully—never too much, never too little. By the end of the meeting, Lianne looked lighter. Hopeful.
And Selena felt it—that old certainty settling back into her bones.
See? she told herself. You still have it.
Marcus Porter was exactly the kind of man Selena knew how to handle.
She met him three days later at a hotel bar downtown, introduced through a mutual contact as a consultant in the same industry. Her line of job has connections. He noticed her immediately. Men like Marcus always did.
He leaned in when she spoke. Laughed too loudly at her jokes. Asked personal questions within the first ten minutes.
Selena didn’t even have to try.
By the end of the night, his hand rested possessively at the small of her back.
"You’re dangerous," he murmured, eyes dark with interest.
She smiled, slow and knowing. "Only if you let me be."
Two days later, he texted her first thing in the morning.
By the end of the week, he was confessing his dissatisfaction with his Life. She knew about his infidelity. He has a Mistress that he keeps on neglecting. Calls he keep on rejecting that Lianne confirmed it isn't hers.
By the second week, he was talking about distance. Regret. Mistakes.
It took twelve days for him to say it.
"I think I’m falling for you."
Selena ended it that same night.
No drama. No tears. Just a quiet, precise withdrawal that left him shaken and apologetic. Within forty-eight hours, Marcus was back home, buying flowers, scheduling counseling, desperate to fix what he nearly lost.
Lianne sent Selena a message filled with gratitude and relief.
You saved my marriage.
Selena stared at the screen, satisfaction blooming in her chest.
There it is.
Proof.
She wasn’t losing her touch.
And yet—
Later that night, alone in her apartment, the victory felt… hollow.
She sat on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, scrolling absently until she stopped.
Adrian.
No new messages. No missed calls.
Just silence.
She leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Marcus had fallen in less than two weeks.
Adrian hadn’t even taken her hand.
Selena exhaled sharply, irritation flaring anew.
He was the exception. That was all.
A difficult man. A slower process.
Nothing more.
She turned off the light, refusing to let doubt take root.
Tomorrow, she would see Adrian again.
And this time, she told herself, she wouldn’t let the pace get to her.
Because she was Selena Cruz.
And there was still no man she couldn’t get.
- Writer
