Chapter 1: Into the DMs
The hotel room was cold in that sterile, corporate way—everything beige, everything smelling faintly of disinfectant and loneliness. Peter tossed his suitcase onto the king-sized bed, exhaling as he loosened his tie. Another business trip, another city that blurred into the last one. He flicked on the TV just for noise, some late-night sports recap droning in the background, but he wasn’t listening.
His phone buzzed—a text from Sarah. *Dinner with the Harrisons tonight. Wish you were here.* He smirked. No, she didn’t. She liked these nights, the wine-fueled gossip with the neighbors, the way they all pretended their marriages weren’t just polite arrangements. He thumbed back a quick *Miss you too* before tossing the phone aside.
Scrolling through Instagram was just something to do, muscle memory more than interest. Then he saw her.
Andrea Rossi.
His thumb froze mid-swipe.
She was leaned back in a yoga pose, arms stretched overhead, her body a perfect curve of toned muscle and effortless grace. The caption read *Morning flows and slow burns.* He swallowed. Ten years since college, and she looked *better.* Dark hair piled in a messy knot, that smirk he remembered too well—confident, like she knew exactly what she did to people.
He shouldn’t.
He *definitely* shouldn’t.
But his fingers moved before his brain caught up. *Hey stranger. Still bending like a pretzel, I see.*
Sent.
He groaned, tossing the phone onto the nightstand like it was hot. Christ, what was he doing? It was just a stupid DM, harmless nostalgia. Except—his phone lit up. Three dots appeared. Then:
*Peter Thompson. Took you long enough.*
A laugh punched out of him. Of course she remembered. Andi never forgot anything.
*Got busy,* he typed. *Life, marriage, the usual slow death.*
*Ouch.* A pause. *Sleeping with anyone?*
*Um, married?*
*Not what I asked* came back the cheeky reply.
Peter grinned, thumb hovering over the screen. *What about you? Still collecting admirers like trophies?*
Her response was instant—a photo, grainy and dimly lit, of some college kid in downward dog, his shorts tented obscenely. *This one whimpers when I adjust his hips. Cute, right?*
Another buzz. A selfie of her in a dim bar, lips swollen, pressed against a woman whose tank top barely contained her. *Last night got a little wild.*
Then a video—just three seconds. A man’s forearm flexed against her throat, his other hand gripping her hip, the sound of skin slapping skin before the screen went dark. *He doesn’t text first. Just shows up.*
Peter’s pulse kicked hard. The AC hummed, suddenly too loud. He typed, deleted, typed again. *You always did like an audience.*
*And you always watched,* she shot back.
The TV flickered, casting shadows on the drawn blinds. He could still smell her—vanilla and sweat, the way she’d arch into him like she was starving. Ten years. He exhaled, thumbs pressing into the screen. *Bet you wouldn’t say no if I showed up too.*
A pause. Then: *Prove it.