Chapter 3

After the divorce, I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t scream or throw anything. I didn’t sob into a friend’s lap while she whispered that I deserved better. I just sat at the edge of the bathtub in a pair of sweatpants I hadn’t washed in three days and stared at my reflection like I didn’t recognize it.

I was twenty-four years old. My son was four. And I had finally admitted out loud what I had been swallowing for years.

I didn’t love him. I didn’t respect him. And I couldn’t stay.

He wasn’t abusive. Not in the way that left bruises. But he was careless. Dismissive. Unkind in the way lazy men always are when they think no one is watching. He ignored our son, made promises and broke them, let me do all the heavy lifting and still acted like he was the one with the hard life. He’d sit on the couch while I cooked, cleaned, studied, worked double shifts and came home to dishes still in the sink. He called me emotional when I tried to talk. Crazy, sometimes. Said I should be lucky someone like him had married me.

So I left.

Not for someone else. Not out of impulse or revenge. I just couldn’t look at him anymore without feeling like I had failed myself.

That was the beginning.

I was broke, exhausted, with a toddler who needed everything from me and not enough hours in the day to give it. I was studying medicine during the day, waitressing at night, sleeping in three-hour chunks. My textbooks were stained with formula and black coffee. I’d take my exams with unbrushed hair and an ache behind my eyes from crying in the car before class.

And somehow, I kept going.

I finished my degree. Took an assistant position at a small clinic outside of town. I was the youngest on staff, the prettiest, the least experienced, and I worked twice as hard to make them forget all three. Within a few years I was wearing the white coat. People started calling me doctor. Mothers asked for me by name. Teenagers trusted me. Nurses whispered when I walked past, not because I was scandalous, but because I made them feel small without ever raising my voice.

That was what I learned in those years. Power doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like perfect posture. Like lipstick that never smudges. Like silence in a room full of people waiting for you to speak.

And then, when I had that foundation beneath me, when things finally started to feel solid, I let myself explore the other side of what I had been missing.

I started sleeping with men again. Briefly. Randomly. I wasn’t dating. I didn’t want relationships. I didn’t want someone texting me good morning or asking me about my day. I just wanted to feel things again. I wanted to know if my body still worked, if it could still command a man to tremble without saying a word.

One of them stands out. Not because he was good looking, but because of how completely wrong it was.

He was old. At least fifty-five. A silver-haired, wide-shouldered man who ran the hardware store just outside the town. I went in for a screwdriver. He handed me a smile I could feel between my legs. The next day, I was in the backseat of his truck with my thighs spread and my skirt bunched up around my waist.

His name was Glenn. Or Greg. Something with a G. He had rough hands, big knuckles, arms like steel beams. I didn’t even like him. He smelled like sawdust and aftershave, and he moaned like a man who hadn’t been touched in years. But he called me a slut when I rode him. Told me I had a perfect pussy and came with his hand gripping my waist so hard I bruised. He made me come so hard that I almost passed out.

Afterward, he asked for my number. I gave him a fake one and never went back to that store again.

There were a few others. One worked at a gas station. One was a bartender I met when Sienna dragged me out drinking. A guy in his twenties who tried to call me baby while I sucked him off and came in under two minutes. A bouncer who pulled my hair while I rode him in a hotel bathroom and said my tits looked fake. Well duh. They were.

Eventually, it got boring. The chase. The awkward kisses. The predictable lines. I didn’t want to be desired like that anymore. I didn’t want to be a story some guy told to his friends after jerking off in the shower.

So I stopped.

I focused on my work. My son. My space. I redecorated the house. I bought soft sheets and warm lighting and a new mattress that held my body like a secret. I built a life that felt safe, structured, clean. Men still flirted. They always did. I was the hottest woman in town, maybe in the entire county. I knew it. I didn’t pretend otherwise. But they wanted the image of me. The idea. They didn’t want me.

So I stopped giving.

I didn’t go celibate. I just got smarter. My drawer became my release. Toys chosen like tools, not distractions. A glass dildo for when I wanted pressure. A slim, curved vibrator for mornings after long shifts. My fingers on my clit under the covers while the rain tapped on the windows. I came when I wanted. How I wanted. It was mine. All of it.

There was nothing sad about it. No loneliness. Just autonomy.

My sexuality wasn’t something I gave away anymore. It was something I owned. A storm in a glass case. A blade I only drew when I knew it would cut exactly where I needed.

And now, years later, with my son nearly grown and my life exactly where I want it, I feel that storm start to stir again.

But this time, I won’t waste it. Not on strangers. Not on boys who don’t know how to look at a woman without asking for something. If I let that blade come out again, it’ll be for a reason. A real one.

And lately ... there’s been someone.

I’ve already tasted enough to know it isn’t just curiosity. Not for me. There’s something real there, pulsing underneath all that softness and silence. Something that shifts when he’s too close. When I let him be close.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling yet.

But I do.

And I want to see just how far he’ll let me take it ... before he breaks.

The bell over the café door gave a quick chime as we stepped inside. The air was warm, filled with the scent of roasted beans, faint vanilla, and the low hum of quiet conversations layered beneath clinking cups. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, catching on the glassware and moving lazily across the floor like a slow tide.

I guided Sienna in with a light touch at her back, more gesture than pressure. She didn’t say anything about it. Just glanced around once, eyes tracking the tables, and headed for one in the middle of the room.

We sat. Not near the windows. Not tucked into a corner. Just ... centered.

She slipped off her sunglasses and set them next to her phone. Her nails were freshly done, pale pink with a glossy finish. She crossed one leg over the other and adjusted the strap of her top, even though it didn’t need adjusting.

I didn’t say anything yet. I just scanned the menu chalked on the wall, more out of habit than curiosity.

“Place looks better than it did last time,” Sienna said, stretching slightly as she looked around. “Did they repaint?”

“They changed owners. Young couple bought it. She bakes, he does the espresso. The pastries don’t taste like cardboard anymore.”

She giggled. “Shame. I liked the cardboard.”

The waiter came by, slim and young, eyes flicking between us just a little too long.

“Oat milk cappuccino,” I said, glancing up briefly.

Sienna tapped her finger on the table. “Black Americano with a splash of vanilla. No cream.”

He nodded and disappeared.

She leaned back, lips pursed. Her eyes landed on a crooked painting near the counter and stayed there.

“Remember when this place used to be full of high schoolers skipping class and pretending they were deep?” she said.

I smiled, just barely.

“You mean when we used to be them?”

She gave a soft laugh. “Speak for yourself. I’ve always been well-adjusted.”

“Sure you have.”

Her coffee came first. Mine followed. We didn’t rush to drink. Sienna stirred hers absently, metal spoon clinking against ceramic.

Sienna’s eyes slid over me. Her gaze was slow, deliberate, like she was taking inventory.

“You know,” she said, stirring her coffee with a little spoon, “for someone who claims she’s not seeing anyone, you sure as hell don’t dress like it.”

I raised an eyebrow and gave her a small smile. “It’s just a blouse.”

“It’s a fuck-me blouse.”

“It has buttons.”

“Exactly,” she said, leaning in. “And every man in this café is wondering how many they’d get away with unfastening before you stop pretending you don’t like it.”

I gave a quiet laugh and let my eyes drop to her top, thin and clinging, straps resting just far enough off her shoulders to suggest something. “Says the woman who came dressed like a Pilates instructor who cheats with the gym owner.”

Sienna grinned and lifted her coffee to her lips. “Touché.”

Her tone softened slightly after that, and she tilted her head. “So. How’s Nate?”

I let out a breath, half a smile tugging at my mouth. “Moody. Hungry. Eighteen. Basically one long sigh in human form. Other than that he has been doing fine. I’m doing everything to keep him happy.”

She nodded knowingly. “Teenage boys are just unprocessed chaos.”

“That or walking hormone dispensers,” I added. “His voice dropped again last week and I swear I almost called an exorcist.”

Sienna laughed but it faded quickly as her thoughts turned inward. “Mine’s doing alright. Quiet. Focused, I think. He doesn’t talk to me much anymore unless it’s about money or food. Guess that means he’s healthy.”

I studied her for a second, then she shifted in her seat, like she’d remembered something.

“Actually, since I have you...” She glanced around the café casually, making sure no one was too close. “He’s been getting these weird dry patches on his upper arms. Red. A little itchy but not crazy. Is it eczema?”

“Could be,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Could be detergent, could be stress, could be nothing. Has he been swimming?”

“A few times. The gym pool.”

“Tell him to moisturize after and switch his body wash to something gentler. And if it doesn’t clear up in a week, I’ll give you something mild. No cortisone yet.”

Sienna gave a small sigh of relief. “God, I love having you on speed dial. If I had to deal with an actual pediatrician, I’d probably strangle them in the waiting room.”

“You’re not allowed to strangle people. It ruins the highlights.”

“Fair.”

The conversation drifted naturally from there. I told her about the clinic, about the nurse who kept misfiling the chart notes, the teen patient who cried because I said the word “needle,” and the father who tried to flirt with me in front of his wife by complimenting my bedside manner.

“He actually winked at me while she was in the room,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Then followed up with a Yelp review that said I made his son feel ‘safe and seen.’”

Sienna burst out laughing, nearly spilling her coffee. “What is it about dads and doctors? Like they think saying the word ‘single’ in a waiting room automatically gets them inside you.”

“They can barely get inside a conversation.”

We both laughed for a moment, that easy rhythm slipping back into place.

Then, after a pause, I glanced at her. “How’s Liam?”

Her smile faltered for just a second. “He’s fine. Work’s been crazy. He’s stressed.”

“And?”

Sienna shrugged, reaching for her coffee again. Her voice lowered slightly, her tone dipping into something more honest. “We haven’t really been ... connecting lately.”

I said nothing, just let the quiet fill the space between us.

She glanced sideways, then leaned in. “Our sex life’s been shit. And I don’t mean like ... dry spell shit. I mean, I could lie there and read emails while it’s happening and still finish them before he does.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“It’s like he’s trying to check it off a list. Like laundry or taking the trash out. No effort, no build-up, just ‘Hey, we haven’t in a while’ and then he’s inside me before I can fake interest.”

I let out a small hum of sympathy. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah. And I don’t want to be the cliché wife complaining about her marriage at a café, but...” She trailed off. “I miss being touched like I’m actually ... I don’t know. There.”

I nodded once, slowly, letting her have that moment.

She shook it off with a sip. “Anyway, enough about my disappointing vagina. What about you?”

I blinked. “What about me?”

Sienna smirked. “Don’t play dumb. I asked about Nate. About work. About the whole ‘I’m a goddess in control of my destiny’ thing. But I haven’t heard a single word about who’s been keeping you warm at night.”

I tried not to react, but the smile crept up before I could stop it. Just the smallest curl of my lips. My eyes dropped for a breath.

And Sienna saw it. Of course she did.

She slapped her palm on the table, just loud enough to turn a few heads. “No. No, no. That was a look. That was a guilty look.”

I raised my eyes to hers, calm again, smooth.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing doesn’t make you smile like that. Spill it.”

I looked around the café. Too many people. The couple behind us. The man reading his laptop three tables down. The girl at the counter with one earphone in. I leaned in, slow and casual.

“If you want to hear it,” I said, voice low, “we should probably find a quieter table.”

Sienna’s eyebrows shot up. Her grin widened.

“I knew it.”

I picked up my cup. She grabbed hers. And neither of us said a word as we stood.

The real conversation hadn’t started yet. But it was already burning.

We took our coffees and slipped toward the quieter side of the café, through the little hallway with the tacky framed art and fake ivy crawling the walls. Back here, everything felt tucked away. Dimmer light, hushed voices, half-walls between tables like a secret whispered by the architecture itself. It was perfect. The kind of quiet that let a confession feel safe, even if it wasn’t.

I slid into the booth first. Sienna followed, practically vibrating with anticipation. She was already grinning, like she’d cracked a safe just by asking the right question.

Me? I felt ... steady. At least on the outside. Calm fingers wrapped around my cup, shoulders relaxed, eyes casual. But something low and quiet stirred in my stomach. Not fear. Not regret. Just the weight of what it meant to say it out loud. It was one thing to live in the moment. To take, taste, enjoy. But naming it? That was something else.