After Divorce, I Married My Husband's Enemy

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of our oceanfront villa. The European tour ended three days early, and I wanted to surprise my husband.

Instead, a high-pitched giggle drifted down the curved staircase.

I froze. My grip tightened on the handle of my violin case.

"Stop it, Bill. You're tickling me," a woman whined playfully.

I took the steps two at a time. My chest tightened. I reached the master suite and shoved the cracked door wide open.

Bill Montgomery lay tangled in our white sheets. Diana, his so-called assistant, straddled his hips. She wore the emerald silk robe I bought in Paris last month.

Diana paused, tracing a manicured nail along Bill's jawline. She didn't look at the door. "What if she comes back?"

"Let her," Bill muttered, pulling Diana closer. "What value does she have besides playing that damn violin?"

A harsh, ugly laugh scraped its way out of my throat.

Bill snapped his head toward the doorway. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before flattening into deep annoyance.

"Is that really all I am to you, Bill?" I asked.

"You're supposed to be in Vienna," he stated. He didn't bother to push Diana off.

"And you're supposed to be my husband. Get out of my bed."

"Calm down, Olivia," Bill said, leaning back against the headboard. "You're overreacting."

"Overreacting?" I stepped further into the room. "You're screwing your assistant in our marital bed. Which part of my reaction is over the top?"

"The part where you show up unannounced and start throwing a tantrum," Bill replied, completely unfazed.

"A tantrum? I'm your wife!"

"On paper," he scoffed. "You care more about your recitals than this marriage anyway."

"That's your excuse? That I work?"

Diana smirked. She adjusted the lapels of my robe, making sure it dipped lower over her chest. "Bill, my head hurts. She's yelling."

"Keep your voice down, Olivia," Bill commanded. He finally sat up, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "You're giving Diana a migraine."

"I'm giving her a migraine?" My fingers dug into the hard plastic of my case. "Get the hell out of my house. Both of you."

"Don't be dramatic," Bill sighed. "I've had a long week. Just go to the guest room so we can rest."

"Are you out of your mind?" I marched toward the bed and clamped my hand around Diana's wrist. "Get up."

"Ow! Bill, she's hurting me!" Diana shrieked, thrashing her arm.

Bill leaped up, shoving me backward. I stumbled into the hallway. Diana followed, clutching the robe tightly around her waist.

"Are you insane?" Bill barked, stepping between us. "Don't lay a hand on her."

"She's wearing my clothes! In my bed!" I pointed a shaking finger at Diana. "Take it off. Now."

"Bill, I'm scared," Diana whimpered.

She backed away toward the edge of the staircase. She met my gaze over Bill's shoulder. Her lips curved upward in a wicked, triumphant smile.

Then, she threw herself backward.

"Ahhh!"

Her body hit the first step, tumbling violently down the marble flight. She landed at the bottom with a sickening thud. A pool of red immediately began spreading from beneath her blonde hair.

"Bill!" Diana wailed, tears streaming down her face. "Help! Olivia tried to kill me!"

Bill shoved past me, taking the stairs in massive leaps. He fell to his knees beside her, his hands hovering over her bleeding forehead.

"I didn't touch her," I said, my voice eerily calm. "She jumped."

"Shut up!" Bill roared.

He spun around and stormed back up the steps. His face twisted in pure fury. Before I could blink, his palm cracked against my cheek.

The force spun me around. My shoulder slammed into the railing. The violin case slipped from my numb fingers.

It bounced down the marble steps. The latches popped. My custom Italian violin spilled out, snapping at the neck as it hit the hard stone floor. The strings pinged wildly, a sharp, dissonant death cry.

I stared at the splintered wood. My heart stopped. My career, my passion, my entire life—smashed into pieces on the floor.

"My violin," I whispered.

"If she dies," Bill snarled, scooping Diana into his arms, "I'll make sure you rot in a cell."

"You broke it," I said, ignoring his threat.

"You're a psycho, Olivia. Stay away from us."

He carried her out the front door. The heavy wood slammed shut behind them.

Silence swallowed the villa.

I stood alone on the landing. Down below, Diana's blood stained the white marble right next to my shattered instrument.

My cheek burned. My chest felt hollowed out, scraped clean with a jagged knife. I walked down the stairs, stepping carefully over the blood. I didn't pick up the broken pieces. There was no point.

I didn't pack a bag. I just walked out into the cold night air.

The coastal wind whipped my hair across my face. I marched down the center of the asphalt road, staring blankly at the yellow dividing line. I didn't care where I was going. I just needed to get away from that house.

A deafening screech of tires ripped through the quiet.

Blinding headlights washed over me. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air. A black luxury sedan stopped less than an inch from my kneecaps.

I didn't flinch. I just glared at the glowing grill.

The driver's side door flung open. A man stepped out into the harsh light.

He wore a bespoke charcoal suit. His jaw looked carved from granite, and his dark eyes burned with absolute zero temperature.

"If you want to die," Shawn Thorne said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "don't get in my way. Find another street."

The sheer arrogance in his tone snapped the last thread of my restraint.

"You rich people are all disgusting!" I screamed, stepping right up to his bumper. "You think you own the damn road? Run me over then! Do it!"

Shawn frowned. His gaze dropped to the angry red mark forming on my cheek. He didn't move. He didn't apologize.

"Get out of the road," he ordered.

"Make me," I challenged, my voice cracking.

He stared at me for a long, heavy moment. His eyes swept over my messy hair, the bruised cheek, and the empty look in my eyes. "Are you drunk?"

"No. Just completely done with men who think they rule the world."

"Get out of the road," he ordered again, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Go to hell."

I spun on my heel and stormed off into the darkness, leaving him standing by his car.

I had no idea the man I just yelled at was Shawn Thorne.

And I certainly didn't know he was Bill Montgomery's most ruthless, unforgiving enemy.