Chapter 29
Mack's hands roamed with deliberate slowness, tracing the delicate curve of Viola's collarbone before sliding down to cup the swell of her breasts. His fingers kneaded gently, eliciting a soft gasp from her lips that sent a shiver racing down his spine.
He lowered his mouth to hers, lips brushing in a tender, feather-light kiss before deepening with a slow, demanding hunger. Viola's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as heat blossomed between them like wildfire.
His touch was both reverent and possessive, mapping every inch of her skin with fingers and lips—down her neck, along her shoulders, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. Each kiss left a trail of fire, making her breath hitch and her pulse quicken.
Viola arched beneath him, her body molding perfectly to his as he pressed closer. Mack's hands slid beneath the waistband of her jeans, tracing the soft line of her hips before inching lower. The cool air kissed the heated skin exposed as he slowly undid the button, the zipper teasingly slow.
Her breath hitched, anticipation coiling tight inside her. Mack's mouth followed his hands, trailing kisses down her stomach, teasing the sensitive hollow just above her hips. His tongue flicked a slow, wet path that made her arch higher, desperate for more.
Her hands explored him in turn, tracing the broad planes of his chest, the taut muscles beneath his shirt. When she finally slipped her fingers beneath the hem, the heat of his skin stunned her.
Mack's lips found hers again, his hands sliding under her shirt to cup her bare back, fingers splaying wide. He pressed her closer, the heat of his body melting away every last bit of resistance.
Slowly, he lowered himself between her legs, the teasing contrast of cool air and warm skin making her shiver. His mouth found hers once more, breathless and fierce, as he claimed her with every touch.
Viola's nails raked gently down his back, anchoring herself to him as waves of heat pulsed through her. Each kiss, each caress was a promise—of desire, of trust, of something deeper simmering beneath the surface.
Mack's voice was a low growl against her skin."You're mine tonight. No one else."
Her whispered reply was a surrender, a prayer, a challenge."I'm yours. All of me."Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a pale glow across the tangled sheets where Mack and Viola lay wrapped in each other's arms. The quiet hum of the city outside was a gentle reminder that the world hadn't paused for them—though, for a moment, it had felt like it might.
Viola stirred first, eyelids fluttering open to find Mack's dark eyes already watching her, a small, satisfied smile playing at his lips.
"Morning," he murmured, voice rough but warm.
She smiled back, the faintest blush coloring her cheeks. "Morning."
For a beat, they simply held each other, savoring the stillness before the inevitable rush of the day.
But the calm shattered when Mack's phone buzzed sharply against the nightstand.
He reached for it, eyes narrowing as he read the message.
"Trouble?" Viola asked softly, sensing the shift in his mood.
Mack's jaw clenched. "Maybe. Looks like our quiet night won't last."
He stood, pulling on a shirt with deliberate speed, the easy intimacy between them now replaced by tense focus.
Viola sat up, wrapping the sheets around her shoulders. "Want me to come with you?"
He shook his head, though the unspoken hesitation in his eyes said more than words ever could. "Not this time. But I'll be back. Soon."
She nodded, biting her lip, her fingers curling into fists of quiet resolve.
"Stay safe."
He crossed the room, pressing a kiss to her forehead before slipping out the door, leaving the space between them charged with promise and uncertainty.
The pale gold of early morning spilled through the bedroom curtains, painting Mack's bare shoulders in a warm glow. Viola stirred beside him, tangled in sheets and his arms, her cheek resting against his chest. His steady heartbeat thudded beneath her ear, a comforting rhythm that made her want to stay there forever.
He shifted slightly, his hand brushing lazily along the curve of her hip.
"Morning, sweetheart," he murmured, voice still gravelly with sleep.
She smiled sleepily. "Morning."
Before she could curl back into him, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She groaned, reaching for it, only to see her editor's name flashing across the screen.
"Give me a second," she whispered, sliding out of bed and tucking the sheet around her.
Mack's gaze followed her, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he propped himself up on one elbow.
"You look like trouble wrapped in cotton," he teased.
She shot him a playful glare before answering the call.
"Viola, can you meet me at the coffee shop in half an hour? I want to go over the latest draft," her editor said briskly.
"Sure. I'll be there," Viola replied, glancing back at Mack.
When she hung up, she leaned against the doorframe. "I've gotta meet my editor. Coffee shop. Book talk."
Mack stretched, the sheet slipping scandalously low on his hips. "I've got a full day ahead, anyway. Meetings." He stood, closing the distance between them to press a lazy kiss to her lips. "Behave yourself."
"Always," she lied with a grin.
The bell above the coffee shop door chimed softly as Viola stepped inside, the warm scent of roasted beans wrapping around her. She spotted her editor at a corner table, waving her over. They spent twenty minutes in animated discussion over her manuscript, flipping through marked-up pages and trading ideas.
Viola was halfway through her latte when the door opened again. Her heart dropped into her stomach.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was him. . . . . .
The man she had once planned her life around—the same man who'd shattered it in a single night by her founding out about his affair.
He froze when he saw her, then had the audacity to smile faintly, like he was entitled to nostalgia.
"Viola," he said, his voice a blend of surprise and something else—guilt, maybe, though it was hard to tell with him.
Her pulse pounded, heat crawling up her neck. The coffee shop felt smaller, the air heavier. She straightened in her seat, spine rigid, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
stepped closer, ignoring the unspoken wall she'd built between them, and pulled out the chair opposite hers.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked, but didn't wait for permission before lowering himself into it.
Viola's editor glanced between them with a flicker of awkwardness before mumbling something about refilling her coffee and excusing herself. Viola kept her gaze steady on Ethan, refusing to be the first to look away.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes scanning her face as though trying to read a language he no longer understood.
"You look… different," he said slowly. "Stronger."
"That's what happens when you cut out the rot," she replied, taking a calm sip of her latte.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't respond right away. Instead, he stared at her in a way that used to make her skin crawl—like she was his to figure out, his to mold. But that was before. That power was gone, stripped from him the moment she walked away.
She sat there in her pressed blouse, her hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, her pen poised over the open manuscript in front of her. The symbol of everything she had built without him.
"I've been keeping up with your books," Ethan said finally, almost grudgingly. "You're… doing well."
"I am." She met his gaze with a steady confidence that didn't falter. "Because I'm free now. And because I stopped letting someone else dictate my worth."
His stare sharpened, but beneath it, she saw something else—regret, maybe even jealousy. Whatever it was, it no longer mattered.
For the first time in years, she realized he had no claim, no hold, no say in her life. She had walked out a woman broken, and returned one who had built herself back into steel
than leaned forward, his gaze unrelenting, as if staring hard enough might peel back the layers of her success and independence. Viola, however, didn't flinch. She sipped her latte, turned a page in her notebook, and refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing any reaction.
A shadow fell across the table.
"Hey, buddy," Sam's voice broke through the tension. "Why don't you move along? You're making people uncomfortable."
Ethan's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
Sam didn't blink. "You heard me. This is a coffee shop, not an interrogation room. You're taking up someone's table and glaring like you're about to sell snake oil."
Before Ethan could reply, the door chimed. A tall, polished-looking woman stepped inside, scanning the room until her gaze landed on him. She smiled and waved.
"Honey!" she called brightly.
Ethan's mouth twitched—half irritation, half smugness. He glanced back at Viola, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as though he thought the arrival of his wife meant some sort of victory. Without another word, he stood and gestured toward a table across the room.
"Guess I'll see you around, Vi," he said, like it was his choice.
She didn't respond. She simply picked up her pen again, her attention already back on her notes.
Ethan walked over to greet his wife, pulling out her chair before sitting down beside her. He laughed at something she said, then looked over his shoulder at Viola one last time, wearing the kind of smile that screamed I still matter.
Viola's lips curved into the faintest of smirks. He didn't matter. Not anymore..