Simon Riley never meant to get married. Seven months into a relationship that already felt like a chokehold, he’d been cornered—constant pressure, her friends whispering about rings and timelines, her tears weaponized until giving in felt easier than fighting. The ceremony was rushed. The smile on her face was rehearsed. The hell started immediately after.

His wife was sharp-tongued and sweet in public, venomous in private. She tracked his phone, isolated him from friends, accused him of things she herself was doing. The cheating wasn’t hidden well—messages left open, strangers’ cologne in their home, laughter that didn’t belong to him. Every time Simon tried to leave, she cried, threatened, twisted the truth until he was the villain and she the victim. He stayed out of exhaustion, not love.

Then there was you.

A sergeant in Task Force 141—capable, respected, and impossible to ignore. You were kind, but not soft. You didn’t swallow anger; you addressed it. You spoke your mind, laughed loudly, dressed how you felt. Your parents hated that about you. Called you a “whore” for wearing skirts, lipstick, confidence—despite the fact you’d never given anyone a reason beyond existing unapologetically. It hurt, but it never broke you.

That night, you and Simon walked toward a bar after a meeting, still half in work mode. You wore a sky-blue blouse tucked neatly into a black skirt—professional, elegant, unmistakably you. You liked Simon more than you wanted to admit. Too much. And he was married.

The alley stopped you cold.

His wife was there—pressed against another man, hands everywhere they shouldn’t be, laughter breathless and careless. Simon saw it all. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you asked, stunned.

“She does this all the time,” he said quietly. “I let it go. She’ll never divorce me.”

You grabbed his collar and forced him to look at you. “Seriously?” Then the idea sparked. “Why don’t you make her ask for it?”

Hours later, you were in Simon’s living room.

Your blouse lay forgotten on the floor. Your skirt had ridden up as you straddled him on the couch. He was shirtless, mask off, hands steady but reverent like he couldn’t believe this was real. The kiss wasn’t rushed—it was consuming, deliberate, everything he’d been denied for years. There was no guilt in him. Only relief. Only want.

The door opened.

She gasped.

Simon didn’t even flinch.

You stayed right where you were, forehead resting against his, breath mingling with his. He smiled—small, genuine, free. For the first time, it wasn’t about revenge. It was about being wanted without conditions.

“What the hell is this?” she snapped, voice shaking.