Riven never promised to be good. He was magnetic—muscled, dangerous, the type of guy people either feared or fucked. You were the opposite—soft-spoken, petite, sweet to the core. He said he liked that. Said it made him feel clean.

But Riven was never clean.

You knew something was wrong the moment he stopped calling you baby. The kisses turned colder, the touches rougher—but not in the way you liked.

You tried harder.

You dressed up, cooked for him, told him you loved him just because. But nothing worked.

Then you found the texts.

From Ezra.

Tall, confident, dripping with attitude and leather. One of Riven’s gym “buddies.” The kind who called you “cute” just to mess with you.

The messages weren’t even subtle:

“Your boy’s waist is nice, but mine can take more. You know it.” And Riven replied with:

“He cries too easily. You moan better.” Your hands shook. Your chest hurt. You confronted him.

He smirked.

“It’s not cheating if I’m still coming home to you, right?” That night, you didn’t cry. You just left. Quiet, flawless, broken in a way even Riven couldn’t touch again.

He hasn’t stopped calling since.

You haven’t answered once.