The Surgeon's Revenge: My Ex-Husband's Regret

The transformation took three hours.

Sienna's "squad"-a makeup artist named Leo (not the creep) and a hair stylist named Jinx-worked on Iris with the intensity of a pit crew. They stripped away the layers of Hunter's wife. They scrubbed off the modesty, the meekness, the fear.

When they turned the chair around, Iris didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.

Her skin glowed. Her lips were painted a dangerous, matte red. Her eyes were lined with sharp, winged kohl that made them look like weapons. Her hair fell in loose, deliberate waves that screamed effortless luxury.

She stepped into the red dress. The silk slid over her skin like water. It fit perfectly. It clung to her hips and plunged low in the back, exposing the spine she had stiffened for so long. The slit on the left leg went high, dangerously high, revealing the muscle tone she had maintained in secret gym sessions at 4 AM.

She stepped into the Jimmy Choo heels. They added four inches to her height and a lethal edge to her stride.

"Holy shit," Sienna said. She snapped a photo. "Hunter is going to have a stroke."

"Let's hope," Iris said.

They took the elevator down to the garage. Iris walked past the McLaren to the Porsche GT3. It was matte black, a shadow on wheels.

She slid into the driver's seat. The bucket seat hugged her. The steering wheel was Alcantara, soft and grippy.

She pushed the start button. The engine barked to life, a raw, mechanical sound that vibrated through the chassis and straight into her chest.

Sienna jumped into the passenger seat. "Don't kill us."

Iris reversed out of the spot and shifted into first. They rolled out of the garage and onto the street.

The moment the tires hit the asphalt, something clicked in her brain. The world slowed down. She could feel the texture of the road through the steering wheel. She could hear the intake of air into the engine.

She wasn't Iris Rutledge, the rejected wife. She was Tequila.

She floored it.

The G-force pinned them back. She wove through the Manhattan traffic with surgical precision, finding gaps that didn't exist, anticipating lane changes before the other drivers even signaled.

Sienna was laughing, clutching the door handle. "You're insane!"

"I'm focused," Iris said.

They arrived at Velvet in record time. The line outside wrapped around the block. The bouncers were turning people away by the dozen.

They pulled up to the curb. Iris killed the engine. The silence that followed was ringing.

The valet opened her door. She stepped out, the red dress flashing under the streetlights.

The crowd went quiet. Heads turned. She could feel the weight of their gazes. It wasn't the polite curiosity she was used to at charity balls. It was hunger. It was admiration.

Sienna tossed the keys to the valet. "Keep it close."

They walked toward the velvet rope. The head of security, a massive man named Tiny, looked up. He saw Sienna and nodded, unhooking the rope immediately.

Then he looked at Iris. His eyes widened slightly. He didn't recognize her. No one did.

They swept past the line, ignoring the complaints of the people waiting. They entered the club.

The bass hit Iris first. It thumped in her sternum. The air was thick with smoke and expensive cologne.

They made their way up the stairs to the VIP mezzanine. It was a balcony that overlooked the dance floor, reserved for the people who wanted to be seen but not touched.

Sienna ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. Iris leaned against the glass railing, looking down at the writhing mass of bodies below.

She scanned the crowd, looking for a ghost. Looking for Nightwing.

Instead, her eyes landed on something else.

In the center of the dance floor, trying to look comfortable in a crowd of people ten years younger than him, was Hunter.

And clinging to his arm, wearing a white dress that looked like a virgin's costume, was Dorothea.

Iris's grip on the railing tightened.

"Well," Sienna said, appearing beside her with two glasses. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"He hates clubs," Iris said. "He says the music gives him a migraine."

"He's trying to prove he's young and fun for his new toy," Sienna said, handing Iris a glass.

Iris took a sip of the champagne. It was cold and crisp.

"He looks ridiculous," she said.

"He looks like a man who made a mistake," Sienna corrected.

Iris watched them. Hunter whispered something to Dorothea. She laughed, throwing her head back in a gesture that looked rehearsed.

Iris felt a strange sensation in her chest. It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't pain.

It was pity.

"I'm going to the ladies' room," she said.

"Want backup?"

"No. I can handle it."

She set her glass down and turned toward the stairs. She had to walk past the VIP entrance to get to the restrooms.

She descended the stairs, the red dress flowing behind her like a trail of blood.