The wine-and-cheese mixer lingered in the warm evening air like a slow poison.
Seraphina Voss had spent the entire event performing—perfect hostess smile, crystal laugh, silk dress clinging just enough to remind everyone she was still the queen of the hill. But every time her gaze drifted to Delilah Kane—glowing, loose-haired, skin flushed in a way that screamed recent satisfaction—something dark and hot twisted in her stomach.
And every time it twisted harder when she caught Jett across the lawn: quiet, watchful, standing beside Damien like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
She waited until the crowd thinned—husbands drifting toward cigars, wives toward the bar for one last glass—then slipped away from the main tent. Barefoot on the grass (heels abandoned under a table), she crossed the lawn in shadows, heart hammering louder than the jazz quartet still playing in the distance.
The guest house was dark except for one lamp in the living room.
She didn't knock.
Just opened the door—unlocked, as always—and stepped inside.
Jett was on the couch, shirtless, reading something on his phone. He looked up slowly. No surprise. Just that calm, steady gaze that made her want to scream and beg at the same time.
"Seraphina," he said quietly. No question. No welcome. Just her name.
She closed the door behind her. Locked it this time.
"You've been busy," she said. Voice low. Controlled. But the tremor underneath betrayed her.
He set the phone aside. Stood. Shirtless chest still marked with faint red lines—nail scratches that hadn't been there weeks ago.
"I've been waiting," he answered.
She laughed—sharp, bitter.
"Waiting. Right. While you were fucking Delilah Kane in her sauna every night like some teenage fantasy."
His expression didn't change.
"You've been watching."
"I've been seeing." She stepped closer. Close enough to smell him—clean sweat, faint cedar, the ghost of another woman's perfume on his skin. It made her stomach lurch with something she refused to name jealousy. "I saw the lights. I saw her walk funny the next morning at the club. I saw the way she looks at you now—like you own her."
Jett didn't deny it.
Just watched her.
Seraphina's hands shook at her sides.
"I told you I needed space. I told you to stay away."
"You did."
"And you did." Her voice cracked. "You stayed away from me. And went straight to her."
He took one step forward. Slow. Deliberate.
"You pushed me away, Seraphina. I respected that."
"Respect?" She laughed again—harsher. "You respected me right into Delilah's bed."
Another step. Now only inches separated them.
"You want the truth?" he asked quietly.
She lifted her chin. Defiant. Eyes shining.
"Always."
"I missed you every single night." His voice dropped lower. "Every time I touched her, I saw you. Every time she came, I heard your voice saying my name. Every time I filled her, I remembered how you clenched around me on that desk—like you were afraid I'd disappear if you let go."
Seraphina's breath hitched.
"Liar."
He reached out—slow—brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't pull away.
"I'm not lying," he said. "And you know it. That's why you're here. Not because you're angry at me. Because you're angry at yourself for wanting me back this badly."
A tear slipped free. She dashed it away furiously.
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
She grabbed his face—sudden, desperate—and kissed him.
It wasn't gentle.
It was teeth and tongue and anger and need—all crashing together. She bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. He groaned into her mouth. Hands sliding around her waist, yanking her flush against him.
She shoved him back toward the couch.
He went willingly. Sat. Pulled her down onto his lap—straddling him, dress rucking up to her thighs.
Her hands were everywhere—nails raking his chest, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking his head back so she could bite his throat.
"Tell me you didn't fuck her tonight," she hissed against his skin.
"I didn't."
"Liar."
He gripped her hips. Ground her down against the thick ridge in his shorts.
"Feel that? That's for you. Right now. Only you."
She rocked against him—hard, frustrated. The friction dragged a whimper out of her.
"I saw the scratches," she whispered. "On your back. Her nails."
He slid one hand up her thigh—under the silk—found bare skin, no panties.
"You want to mark me too?" he murmured. "Go ahead."
She did.
Raked her nails down his shoulders—hard enough to leave fresh red lines. He hissed. Thrust up against her—cock straining against the fabric.
She shoved his shorts down just enough. Freed him—thick, hot, leaking.
Guided him to her entrance—no foreplay, no teasing. Just sank down in one brutal motion.
They both groaned—loud, broken.
She rode him fast—angry, punishing. Hips slamming down. Breasts bouncing inside the dress. Nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.
"Fuck—Seraphina—"
"Shut up," she gasped. "Just—shut up and let me take it."
He did.
Let her use him—hard, relentless—until her rhythm faltered, thighs shaking, breath coming in sobs.
He gripped her ass. Thrust up to meet her—deep, steady.
She shattered—clenching around him, crying out his name, wetness flooding over his cock and thighs.
He followed seconds later—buried deep, pulsing inside her, filling her until it leaked out around him.
They stayed locked—sweaty, trembling, hearts hammering.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder.
Tears wet his skin.
"I hate that I need this," she whispered.
"I know."
"I hate that I watched you with her."
"I know."
She lifted her head. Looked at him—eyes red, vulnerable.
"Don't disappear again."
He cupped her face. Kissed her—slow, tender this time.
"I won't."
She stayed on his lap a long time—dress twisted, his cum leaking down her thighs, his arms around her.
Outside, the mixer had ended.
Lights were going off across the estate.
But in the guest house, something had reignited.
And the circle of eyes watching them was only growing wider.
Vivienne Hale, standing on her balcony with a glass of pinot, had seen Seraphina cross the lawn.
Had seen the guest-house door close behind her.
Had smiled—small, knowing—into the dark.
Lyric—seventeen, restless, already tasting forbidden edges—leaned against the railing beside her mother.
"Mom?"
Vivienne sipped her wine.
"Interesting times, sweetheart."
Lyric followed her gaze.
Smiled—slow, curious.
"Yeah. Very interesting."
The jealous return had cracked the surface.
And the undercurrents were rising.