Chapter 1

Three years after our divorce, my ex-husband shows up at my door with roses — smiling like he's already won me back.

"Babe, I kept my promise. Three years on the dot. I'm here to remarry you."

Three years ago, he lost a game of Truth or Dare to his childhood best friend, Sophie.

Sophie's dare:

"I want to see if you and Claire are really in love."

"So you divorce — and you don't see each other for three years."

"If she takes you back after that, I'll admit it's real."

He and Sophie never had boundaries. The flirting was constant — sometimes subtle, sometimes not.

We fought about it all the time.

I thought he'd say no.

Instead, he agreed without blinking:

"Deal! A bet's a bet!"

His friends tried to talk him down. "Think about this — divorce isn't a joke!"

He looked right at me, completely sure of himself:

"I trust what we have. My wife would never leave me — not in this lifetime."

"She'll take me back. I know it."

I said nothing.

What he didn't know was that I was giving him one last chance.

I snap back to the present. He pushes the roses toward me.

I don't take them. I step back and say calmly:

"My husband doesn't let me accept flowers from other men."

…

Ethan's lips curl into that confident little smirk.

"You mad?"

"Come on, I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Don't be like that, babe."

His voice is soft, coaxing , like he thinks I'm just throwing a tantrum.

He moves toward me, arms open, the way he used to.

I take another step back. My face hardens.

"Back off, Ethan."

His hand freezes in air. His eyes stay locked on my face, gentle, searching.

"Oh, so you're really mad this time?"

"Tell me what I have to do. I'll do anything to make it up to you."

He still thinks a few sweet words will fix everything. Just like before.

He steps closer.

Every step he takes forward, I take one back.

The look in his eyes grows hungrier — like he's enjoying the chase.

"Ethan, three years is enough to change everything."

He nods, almost amused. "True."

My back hits the wall. Nowhere left to go.

He plants both hands on either side of my head, caging me in.

He used to do this when we were dating — pin me against the wall and kiss me under the moonlight.

"So — did you have a boy? Or a girl?"

He strokes my cheek with one hand, feather-light.

The memory of that baby hits me like a knife to the chest.

Three years ago, he knew I was pregnant. He knew — and he still divorced me over a stupid dare.

Because Sophie asked him to.

Three years. Not a single call. Not one text.

And now he stands here, so sure of himself, assuming I carried his child and waited like a good little wife for him to come collect me.

A bitter smile pulls at my lips. I'm about to tell him I lost the baby — but his phone rings.

He pulls it out.

The screen lights up with a contact name: My Princess 👑

That's Sophie.

I've seen it a hundred times before — him petting her hair, calling her his princess since they were kids.

Never once caring how that made me feel as his wife.

He picks up immediately.

"Ethan—" Sophie's whiny voice crackles through the speaker, half-crying. "Come back, please, my cramps are so bad, I'm dying—"

Worry floods his eyes instantly.

"Hey, hey — don't panic. I'm coming right now."

He hangs up.

Then he reaches over and pats the top of my head — like I'm some docile cat with no feelings.

"Let me go check on Sophie. I'll come back later, okay?"

And just like that, he's gone.