Married to my Ex Husband’s Rival

Amara's POV

I froze the second I stepped inside.

Somewhere near the counter, a man had shoved another one hard enough to send a barstool skidding across the floor, and a glass went flying, shattering against the tile and then amber liquid spraying everywhere and glass shards all over the floor.

What was I thinking?

A woman shrieked. The bartender was already yelling for someone to break it up, his voice sounding sharp over the music, and two men near the door moved fast to pull the fighting pair apart before it turned into something worse.

I stood there for a second too long, blinking at the scene like it belonged to someone else's life. Like I hadn't just watched my marriage fall apart forty minutes ago in an office two miles from here.

Nobody noticed me.

That was fine. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to be seen at all, honestly. I just wanted somewhere dark and loud enough to drown out my own head for a while.

I skirted around the edge of the commotion, weaving past a cluster of women near the entrance who barely glanced my way, and found an empty stool at the far end of the bar, as far from the noise as I could manage.

My hands were still shaking when I sat down, so I pressed them flat against my thighs and took a breath that didn't do a single thing to calm me down.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asked, already sliding a napkin in front of me.

"Whatever's strong," I said. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else too. It was more steady than I felt, hollow in a way I didn't recognize.

He didn't ask questions, just nodded and got to work, pulling a bottle down from the shelf. I appreciated that more than he'd ever know. The last thing I needed tonight was a stranger asking if I was okay.

When the glass landed in front of me, I wrapped both hands around it and raised it to my lips.

The first sip burned going down, and for one blissful second, it was the only thing I could feel. Not the image of Celine's skin on my husband's mouth or the sound of my own name cracking in his voice as I walked away. Just heat, and the dull ache it left behind, spreading slow through my chest.

It didn't last.

The memory crept back in anyway, uninvited, the way it probably would for the rest of my life. Nicholas's blank face.

He couldn't even regard the couch we picked out together, the one I'd argued for because the leather felt right under my hands in the showroom.

I thought about the first year of our marriage, back when he used to leave sticky notes on the bathroom mirror before work, back when a two-minute phone call from him could carry me through an entire bad day. Back when I actually believed forever meant something to him.

I hated how much that memory still hurt more than the one from an hour ago. I hated that some stupid, stubborn part of me still missed the man from the sticky notes, even sitting here with proof that he didn't exist anymore. Maybe he never had.

The bar was loud around me, full of people laughing, clinking glasses, living lives that hadn't just quietly imploded in the span of a single afternoon.

I watched a couple near the window lean into each other easily as they flirted. I had to look away before the ache in my chest turned into something I couldn't hide at a bar full of strangers. I'd never felt more alone in a crowded room in my life.

I finished the drink faster than I should have and immediately regretted it, my head swimming slightly, my chest still tight with everything I hadn't let myself cry out yet.

I needed a minute. I needed air, or water.

I needed Jemima.

"Bathroom?" I asked the bartender.

He pointed toward the back, past a dim hallway lined with flickering bulbs, the light stuttering every few seconds like it couldn't decide whether to stay on.

I slid off the stool, my legs less steady than I expected, and made my way through the crowd, murmuring quiet apologies every time I brushed against someone.

The hallway was quieter than the main room, the music was muffled behind me now.

I walked further in, my phone's flashlight sitting useless in my bag, squinting at the shadowed doors ahead trying to figure out which one led where. Everything smelled like old wood and spilled liquor back here, and the further I walked, the more the noise of the bar felt like it belonged to a different building entirely.

I turned what I thought was the right corner.

It wasn't.

I collided with something solid and warm, and it took my brain a full second longer than it should have to register what — who….I'd just walked into.

A man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hand braced against the wall beside a woman's head, her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt. They were kissing deeply, tongue and all like they had all the time in the world and hadn't noticed anyone else existed until I stumbled directly into them.

They broke apart. The woman blinked at me, annoyed, smoothing a hand down her dress like I'd personally offended her by existing.

The man just looked amused, one brow lifting up like I'd interrupted something mildly entertaining rather than intimate, his eyes followed me with an ease that made my face burn even hotter.

Heat flooded my cheeks so fast it almost hurt.

"Oh my God, I'm…. I am so sorry," I stammered, already stepping back, my hands raised like that might undo the last five seconds of my life. "I wasn't trying to— I was looking for the bathroom, and I just…"

I didn't wait for a response. I turned on my heel and half-walked, half-ran back the way I came, my face burning, my mind somehow finding room to be embarrassed on top of everything else it was already carrying tonight.

I made it to the bar and to my previous position.

Then I heard a voice from behind me, a low, almost sexy baritone.

"You were not even going to ask my name habibi?”