Swapping Lives With My Cold Ex-Husband

The veins on the back of Donavon's hand bulged as he gripped the silver spoon. He scooped up a portion of the freezing, congealed soup and shoved it into his mouth. The cold, fishy liquid slid down his throat. His expression remained completely blank, his breathing steady without the slightest disruption, though the disgust and murderous intent in his eyes deepened. The icy, fishy taste was revolting, but he swallowed it down with the absolute, chilling control of a man who refused to show weakness. Dara stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She watched him with dead eyes. There was no pity in her posture, only a chilling detachment. Donavon glared up at her, his eyes dark and threatening, silently daring her to call off this absurd humiliation. Dara didn't blink. She tapped her index finger against the wooden table once. Keep going. The silence in the dining room was suffocating. The only sound was the mechanical, forced chewing as Donavon forced down the cold, hard vegetables. Ten minutes later, the spoon scraped against the bottom of the empty bowl. Donavon shoved the porcelain dish away so hard it clattered against the water glass. He snatched his napkin, wiping his mouth with brutal force. "Sign it," he rasped, his voice thick with nausea. Dara didn't hesitate. She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her elegant, looping signature on the bottom of the last two pages. She slid one copy across the table to him. She picked up the trust fund check and folded it into her pocket. "I'll be out of the estate first thing tomorrow morning," she said, her voice flat. She turned and walked toward the grand staircase. She didn't look back. Donavon stared at her retreating back. A sudden, sharp spike of irritation flared in his chest, but he blamed it on the churning acid in his stomach. Hours later, the estate was pitch black. Dara lay on the far left edge of the massive King-size bed in the master bedroom. She stared blankly at the ceiling. The burn on her right hand throbbed with a relentless, burning rhythm. A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and soaked into the pillowcase. Thirty minutes later, the bedroom door clicked open. Donavon walked in, radiating the freezing chill of a cold shower. He pulled back the heavy duvet and lay down on the far right edge of the bed. The physical distance between them was vast enough to park a car in. The room was dead silent, save for the low hum of the central air conditioning. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Donavon's stomach rolled violently from the cold seafood. He clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing to remain steady so he wouldn't make a sound. Dara heard the slight hitch in his breathing. She closed her eyes and turned her back to him. She didn't care anymore. Outside, the wind began to howl. A rare, violent Long Island summer thunderstorm rolled in. Thunder shook the glass panes of the windows. Lightning flashed, casting harsh, skeletal shadows across the bedroom walls. Exhausted by anger, pain, and physical sickness, both of them finally slipped into a heavy, unnatural sleep. At 3:00 AM, a blindingly bright sphere of ball lightning struck the main transformer just outside the estate gates. The digital clock on the nightstand instantly went black. A bizarre, heavy static charge flooded the bedroom, making the hairs on their arms stand up. In her sleep, Dara's brow furrowed. A terrifying sensation of weightlessness hit her, as if her very consciousness was being violently ripped from her spine. At the exact same moment, Donavon's large body jerked with a sharp, involuntary muscle spasm. In the pitch-black room, their breathing patterns slowly synchronized, rising and falling in perfect unison. The storm outside began to die down. The estate's backup generator kicked on with a deep, vibrating hum. Dawn broke, sending a thin sliver of gray light through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, landing directly on the two figures in the bed.