In her hope that real love would blossom free from the shadow of her wealthy and strong family background, Demi Perez had to subtly hide her own identity from her husband, Jeff Ortega. And for the past five years of marriage, all that she ever did was pour all that she has to offer into their marriage, only to be met with cold indifference—and divorce papers that would end things between them. With Demi’s beauty and brains along with her wealth, she had completely conquered the corporate world and made some great impressions everywhere she went, and that includes dominating the failing company of her ex-husband. And in just a year after her divorce, Demi came back powerful and famous. No longer was she the once naive ex-wife that Jeff left behind, because right now, Demi has once again reclaimed her status as the elite and powerful heiress of the Perez clan. “Do you really have to play this dirty game to take revenge on me, Demi?" her ex-husband asked at last. And Demi grinned with such seductive power. “Oh no, It’s not a game, Jeff. It’s just giving you the same doze of your own medicine.” she replied. But as their old flames rekindle, Jeff wasn’t sure if he still wanted retribution or if he wanted her back. While Demi, on the other hand, has to decide whether she would finish what she started, or risk her heart all over again.
View MoreAround noon, I found a note taped to my computer monitor. Simple, clean handwriting. I didn’t need to ask who it was from."Dinner. Your place. 7PM. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me try. –J"I stared at it for a long time.It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a demand.It was... a hope.A quiet one. One I hadn’t earned yet. One I wasn’t sure I could accept.But when seven o’clock rolled around, I was home. I had lit candles. Put on soft music. Worn something that wasn’t just lounge clothes.And I waited.At 7:02, there was a knock.I opened the door, and there he was—holding a bag of takeout from my favorite Thai place, rain in his hair, uncertainty in his eyes.“Hi,” he said softly.“Hi,” I replied.He stepped inside, and we moved through the motions like a dance we hadn’t forgotten. Plates. Chopsticks. Steam curling from cartons. But the real heat in the room wasn’t from the food.It was the tension.I finally broke it.“Who was that message from?” I asked, voice even but my heart
By Monday, we were back in the city.Jeff dropped me off at my place, and though we kissed goodbye with a promise to see each other soon, something lingered between us—something unspoken and tense, like a storm hovering just beyond the horizon.I tried to shake it off as I stepped into my apartment. I unpacked slowly, letting the quiet settle around me. But my thoughts refused to sit still.Why now? Why was Stella suddenly trying to reappear? And why did Jeff hesitate before telling me?It wasn’t fair—he’d done so much to regain my trust. He’d been showing up, loving me in all the right ways. But one whisper from the past, and the walls I’d slowly let fall started climbing back up.I turned on some music, something soft, just to quiet the noise inside my head. And that’s when my phone buzzed.It was a message. From an unknown number.Unknown: "You can believe him if you want. But you should know he came back to me once before. Right after the first time you left."I stared at the scre
There’s something strangely intimate about folding laundry with someone you love. Not the kind of love that’s still wrapped in red ribbons and candlelit dinners, but the kind that shows up in the quiet domesticity of Sunday afternoons—barefoot, soft music in the background, mismatched socks everywhere.Jeff held up one of my oversized sweaters, the sleeves drooping like tired arms. “This still smells like that coconut shampoo you use.”I glanced up from the pile of towels. “I haven’t used that shampoo in months.”“Must be haunted,” he smirked, then tossed it gently to my side of the bed.I laughed, but it came with a soft ache. This was good. Easy. Comfortable. Almost too comfortable.Maybe that’s why it blindsided me when the tension returned—sharp and unexpected like stepping on glass in a room you thought was safe.It happened that evening.We were cleaning out the hallway closet when Jeff’s phone buzzed on the console table. Once. Twice. Three times.He didn’t reach for it.I woul
Demi's POVI stared at the message long after Jeff disappeared down the stairs, heading toward the beach. The wind outside had picked up, brushing against the glass like a warning. I hated that this had happened—now, of all times. Things were just starting to feel steady again.I didn’t even know how he’d gotten my number. I’d deleted it all—his texts, his name, his presence from my life the moment I realized he was a distraction from what I really wanted.From Jeff.And now he comes crawling back, like the past didn’t already do enough damage.I grabbed my phone and typed a response, my fingers moving fast and sharp.“Do not contact me again. This is inappropriate and unwanted. I’m with someone I love—don’t ruin what little decency you have left.”Send.Block.Delete.My chest heaved as I placed the phone face down on the railing of the porch. The waves crashed in the distance, but I couldn’t hear them over the thud of my heart. This wasn’t fair—not to Jeff, not to me, not to what we
Chelsea popped her head into my office later that day.“You look like someone ran over your optimism.”“Not now, Chels.”She walked in anyway, plopping down on the chair across from me. “Okay. Spill.”I told her.Everything.From the breakfast to the journal to the half-confession that landed like a gut-punch instead of a step forward.Chelsea didn’t say anything right away. Then: “Do you regret telling him?”“No. But I hate that it hurt him.”“Demi, listen.” She leaned forward. “You did what most people wouldn’t have the guts to do. You gave him the full picture. He asked for proof you were in this for real, and you gave it. He needs to sit with it, sure—but that doesn’t mean he’s leaving.”“I know,” I said quietly. “But I can’t help feeling like I poked a hole in something just as it was starting to feel whole again.”“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe that hole is where the light gets in.”I groaned. “Did you just quote Leonard Cohen at me?”She grinned. “Absolutely.”I managed a smile,
Demi's POVIt wasn’t the phone call that broke me.Not really.It was the pause. That flicker of hesitation in Jeff’s eyes. The microsecond where I saw him debate whether to tell me the truth. It was the weight of everything we were trying to rebuild pressing on one fragile moment.And I hated that it felt familiar.That split-second uncertainty—the one that made me question whether I was still the girl who could be forgotten. Set aside. Replaced.But I didn’t spiral. Not this time.Because I’d promised myself something too: that I wouldn’t run anymore. That I would stay. That I would speak instead of shut down.Even if it hurt.The morning after he blocked Stella, we went through the motions like nothing had happened.Coffee. Shower. Quiet music playing from my phone as I tied my hair up.But my stomach still twisted when I caught him staring at me—like he was trying to read between the lines of my silence.“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, gently.I thought about lying. I re
Trying is one thing.But staying?That’s the real test.And for the next week, Jeff and I tried.Not in grand, sweeping gestures. Not in dramatic confessions under the rain or fairy tale moments. But in the quiet decisions—the daily check-ins, the shared silences, the soft compromises that slowly stitched us back together.I started trusting him again. Not all at once, but in fragments. Like handing him pieces of a puzzle that used to be whole, asking him to rebuild without the picture on the box.And Jeff?He never once complained.He didn’t push when I asked for space. He didn’t flinch when I brought up Ethan, or Stella, or the silence that had almost swallowed us whole. He listened. He showed up. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was walking alone.Until Thursday.We were supposed to meet at the gallery.My newest commission piece had just been installed, and Jeff offered to help me with the lighting setup before the weekend preview. It was a simple ask—sh
Monday rolled in like a quiet storm.I watched Demi from the passenger seat of her car as she adjusted the volume on the radio, humming softly to some throwback R&B. Her lips moved with the lyrics, a soft sway to her shoulders, completely unaware of how much I was studying her. There was a brightness in her again. A spark. It reminded me of the woman I’d fallen in love with—the one who could bulldoze a room with nothing but her confidence and charm.She’d just come off a major win. The client was onboard again. Sunrise was no longer a sinking ship, and Demi? She was back at the helm with her chin lifted high.But something gnawed at the back of my head like a ticking timer.“Babe,” I said as we pulled up in front of her building, “can I talk to you for a second? Before your day gets crazy.”She raised an eyebrow, sliding the gear into park. “Sure. What’s up?”I hesitated, turning to face her fully. “It’s about Ethan.”Her expression changed immediately—shoulders tensing, eyes narrowin
I barely slept. Hours of tossing and turning, rehearsing my morning presentation to the senior leadership team. When dawn finally came, I felt hollow and wired at the same time.I found Jeff asleep on my couch—he’d come by late, seen my gone‑by‑midnight lights, and decided to keep me company. His phone lay face‑down on the coffee table.My heart clenched. I could stay and risk burning him out—or I could leave him sleeping and face the day alone.I picked up my bag, kissed his forehead as gently as I could, and slipped out.****Seated at the head of the long conference table, I took a breath and clicked “Slide 1.” The recovery plan unfolded: a return to our core branding proposition, reallocating 20 percent of the budget to digital channels the client favored, a revised timeline with clear milestones, weekly check‑ins to rebuild trust.Questions came fast and sharp. I answered them all: Why the extra resources? How we’d measure ROI? What lessons we’d learned. I spoke without notes, my
(Demi’s POV)The divorce papers were glaring back at me from the mahogany table like some sort of a nasty reminder of my shortcomings as housewife. My trembling fingers brushed over the ink where my husband, Jeff Ortega’s, signature glared at me, bold and resolute. His decision was final, and it was unyielding just as the man himself.However, Jeff was standing in front of the window even as I turn and witnessed how the soft afternoon light shining on his erect figure. His eyes were as cold and far away as before, and his sharp facial features were etched with resolve. The distance between us was heightened by his coldness, even with his back facing my direction. “I’ve already signed the papers. You should hurry and sign them too,” he said, his tone devoid of emotion. “I want everything finalized before Stella returns.”Stella. The name cut through me like a blade. My throat tightened as I fought back tears.Jeff didn’t even glance in my direction. “We’ve agreed on the partition of ...
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