Divorced And Rich: Falling For The Mechanic

The smoke curled toward the ceiling, a lazy gray spiral that smelled like sandalwood and old money. Adeline Mcconnell leaned back in the leather armchair, the Cuban cigar resting between her fingers. The ash was long, perfectly gray, holding on until she tapped it against the crystal ashtray.

This room was hers. The mahogany bookshelves, the Persian rug, the heavy drapes that blocked out the afternoon sun-it was all paid for with her money, her taste, her sanity. She took a slow drag, letting the heat fill her lungs, pushing down the knot that had lived in her stomach for three years.

The door slammed open.

The smell hit her first. Cheap beer, stale sweat, and the distinct sourness of unwashed clothes. The sandalwood evaporated.

Cletus Frost stumbled in, his boots tracking mud onto the hardwood floor. A grin split his face, the kind that meant he was looking for trouble and expected to find it easy.

"Hey, sis-in-law." He didn't wait for an invitation. He walked right past the antique desk, his eyes scanning the room like a rat looking for cheese. "Got any smokes?"

Adeline's jaw tightened. She watched him zero in on the humidor on the corner table. It was rosewood, hand-carved, a gift from her father before the scandal.

"Put it down, Cletus." Her voice was flat. "Those aren't cigarettes."

He snorted, his greasy fingers popping the lid open. "Same difference."

He grabbed one of the Cohibas, the longest and darkest one. He pulled a plastic Bic lighter from his pocket-the kind you buy at a gas station for a dollar-and flicked it. The flame touched the end of the cigar.

He sucked in hard.

Then he started choking. His face turned red, his eyes watered, and he doubled over, hacking like a dog with a bone. "What the hell?" he wheezed, spitting phlegm onto the rug. "Tastes like garbage."

He threw the cigar. It hit the Persian rug, the lit end scorching the intricate wool pattern. A black burn mark bloomed instantly against the deep reds and blues.

Adeline's stomach dropped. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not from fear, but from a sudden, violent surge of rage. She stared at the burn mark. That rug was the only thing she had brought from her grandmother's estate.

Cletus didn't even look at it. He flopped onto the leather sofa, his muddy boots scraping against the coffee table. He grabbed a hardcover copy of Moby Dick from the stack, flipped it open, and tossed it aside when the pages didn't amuse him.

"Get out." Adeline stood up. Her hands were shaking, so she shoved them into the pockets of her slacks. "Now."

Cletus picked at his ear, completely unfazed. "What's your problem? This is my brother's house. Which makes it my house. I can sit wherever I want."

He reached for the crystal ashtray on the table. Instead of using it for its purpose, he tipped it over. The loose ash and the crushed cigar butt she'd just put out spilled across the polished wood. He flicked his own lighter, letting the flame dance for a second before blowing it out, leaving a black scorch mark on the wood next to the ash.

Adeline walked over to him. She stopped inches away, close enough to smell the beer seeping from his pores. "This is my study. I bought every single item in this room. You have no right to be here."

Cletus looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her chest in a way that made her skin crawl. "Your money? Please. We all know you're just riding Bailey's coattails. Without him, you'd be nothing."

He stood up, leaning into her space. The stench of him was overwhelming. Adeline took a step back, her throat closing up. Bile rose in the back of her throat.

"Last time, Cletus." She pointed at the door. "Get. Out."

Something in her eyes must have registered through his alcohol haze. He paused, the smirk faltering for a second. Then he shrugged, trying to look casual.

"Whatever. Bitch," he muttered as he walked past her.

At the door, he turned back. He looked at the burned rug, the spilled ash, the discarded book, and then at her rigid posture. A sneer twisted his lips. He slammed the door shut behind him. The walls shook.

The silence returned, but it was dirty now. The air felt thick, contaminated. Adeline stared at the ruined rug. The black mark stared back, a brand on her sanctuary.

She walked to the window and shoved it open. The cool afternoon air rushed in, but it couldn't wash away the smell of him. She looked down at her hands. They were still trembling.

Three years. Three years of this. Of being treated like a wallet with a pulse. Of biting her tongue until it bled. Of watching these parasites drain her dry while acting like they were doing her a favor.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through the contacts until she found the name. Stark. Her thumb hovered over the call button. She imagined Graves Stark's voice, the way he would make this right with a single phone call.

But she hesitated. She didn't want to be the damsel. She didn't want to be the poor little rich girl who needed her daddy's friend to fight her battles.

She put the phone down. She walked back to the ashtray, picking up the cigar she had been smoking. She crushed it out with more force than necessary, the ember dying with a hiss.

She looked at the burn mark on the rug again. It wasn't just a stain. It was a sign.

This ends now.