Chapter 1Never Give a Cheater Second Chances

My boyfriend was picking me up after work.

When I pulled open the passenger door, a young woman was already sitting inside.

She gave me a sweet, practiced smile.

"Hey, I get terribly carsick," she said, her voice dripping with artificial innocence. "You don't mind if I take the front seat, do you?"

I didn't answer. I shut the door quietly, walked around the hood, and stopped right beside the driver's window.

Dean looked up at me, his eyes full of sheepish apology. "It was on the way," he began. "I was just giving her a—"

I reached through the open window and slapped him across the face.

"If she’s that delicate," I snapped, "don't put her in your car. I'd hate for her to bleed all over your leather."

* * *

When Dean came to pick me up, I had rushed down the elevator, clutching my tote bag, terrified of keeping him waiting.

It was our seventh anniversary. We had planned this night for months—a quiet dinner at an impossible-to-book restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at the lounge where we had our first real date. Seven years. Four in college, three in the real world. A lifetime of shared jokes, late-night dinners, and quiet promises.

I hurried toward his sedan, opened the front passenger door, and nearly tossed my bag right into the lap of the girl sitting there.

She didn't even flinch.

She looked at my bag, then up at me, blinking her wide, painted eyes.

"Hi!" she chimed sweetly.

I stood frozen in the muggy evening air.

I tilted my head, looking past her to Dean in the driver’s seat. His posture was stiff, his mouth open, searching for the right words.

Before he could speak, the girl leaned forward. "Hey, I get terribly carsick," she said smoothly. "You don't mind if I take the front seat, do you?"

I looked at Dean again. I saw the guilt flickering in his eyes, but underneath it, something worse: permission. He had allowed her to sit here. He had chosen to give away the space that belonged to us.

I didn't dignify her question with an answer. I stepped back and closed the door with a dull thud.

Noticing my reaction, Dean quickly hit the unlock button for the back doors. But I didn't head for the back. I walked around the front of the car and stopped by the driver’s side window.

We had been together for seven years. He knew me better than anyone in the world, just as I knew the subtle shifts in his posture when he was hiding something. He knew I was furious.

He rolled down the window, his voice cautious. "It was on the way, Lola. I was just giving her a—"

I didn't let him finish. I leaned in and slapped him across the cheek.

The crack echoed in the quiet drop-off zone.

The air turned instantly brittle. The sweet smile froze on the girl's face, crumbling into sheer disbelief. Dean stared at me, his hand flying to his reddening cheek, utterly stunned.

"Lola, stop," he stammered, his voice dropping an octave. "She’s not just a rider. She’s my new intern, Kayla Davis. The restaurant we’re going to is right near her apartment complex. I just thought it made sense to drop her off."

I followed his words and turned a cold, deliberate gaze back onto Kayla.

The slap had come out of nowhere, and Kayla’s face was pale now, her eyes darting frantically between Dean and me. I didn't know what she was so afraid of. If I were going to slap her, I'd need hand sanitizer afterward.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," I said, my tone smooth and venomous. "I'm not going to hit you. I wouldn't waste the effort."

When she spoke again, all her polished composure had vanished. "I'm... I'm so sorry," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. "I really do get nauseous in the back..."

Her eyes darted to Dean, looking for protection. But her protector was already unbuckling his seatbelt, preparing to step out of the car to placate me.

I reached through the window and planted a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder, pressing him firmly back against his seat.

"Stay put," I said.

The tension inside the cabin was unbearable. Kayla quickly unbuckled her belt, opening her door with a frantic movement.

She looked at Dean, her eyes welling with tears. "Dean... Mr. Prescott, please don't fight with your girlfriend because of me. I... I can sit in the back. It's fine."

She stepped out, her movements exaggerated, playing the martyr for Dean's benefit.

"Lola," she said softly, "you take the front."

I looked at her with faux concern. "Are you sure, Kayla? What if you get sick back there and vomit all over his seats?"

Her foot halted mid-step. She stood stranded on the pavement, unable to get back in the front, unwilling to take the back seat, pinned under the spotlight of her own lie.

I leaned back down toward Dean. "What do you think?"

He caught the hard edge in my voice. The awkwardness hit him all at once.

He cleared his throat, unable to meet Kayla’s eyes. "Kayla... maybe you should just call a ride. There isn't really room in here tonight."

Four seats in the car, and not enough space for a couple and a girl trying to play the delicate victim.

Kayla looked around the desolate corporate park. Her face twisted in genuine dismay. Our office complex sat on the edge of the industrial district, miles from the nearest subway station, where rideshare drivers rarely lingered. It was the exact reason Dean picked me up every evening.

A single, dramatic tear slipped down her cheek, though she forced a brave, forgiving smile. "It's fine, Mr. Prescott. You two go ahead. I could use a walk anyway—I’ve been sitting at my desk all day."

I didn't say a word. I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, got in, and pulled it shut.

Dean was still staring into his side mirror, watching her figure shrink in the dusk, his expression lingering on pity.

"Drive," I said, my voice ice. "Take me home. I'm not hungry anymore."

The entire mood of our anniversary was ruined, tarnished by a cheap, transparent game.

Dean pulled out of the parking lot, taking a deep breath before speaking. His tone turned soft, condescendingly affectionate. "She's just a kid fresh out of college, Lola. She doesn't know any better. Was it really necessary to make such a scene over a ride?"

I didn't care about the seat. I wasn't twenty-two anymore; I didn't measure love by who sat in the front of a vehicle.

What bothered me was her calculated testing of my boundaries—and Dean's quiet permission. He hadn't pushed back. He hadn't drawn the line. That was the real issue.