Twelve months later, we marry on the same beach where we had an amazing date at the very beginning of our journey. It’s sentimental, showing how far we have come.
There was no need to wait. As soon as my divorce from Mike was final, I needed him to be my forever partner. The certificate legally sealed it, our rings binding us forever.
I finally get to wear my dream dress. No more second or third choices; only the best for my wedding day. I can’t describe the way I feel. It’s surreal, and I feel like I’m floating; something heavenly and almost spiritual.
So, this is what true love feels like …
Second chances are the best.
Vows - Sienna
Ethan, our life together is one never-ending magical moment.
You have shown me that dreams really do come true and that the future is bright and promising.
You are perfect for me, you are my soul mate, and having you in my life is the most amazing feeling.
I know without a doubt you will make a fantastic husband and one day a father.
I love you with all my heart and soul, more than I ever thought I could love someone.
My roller coaster life is now a subtle wave that I want to ride with you now and forever.
Thank you for being my knight in shining armor.
Vows - Ethan
Sienna, I promise to love you now and forever.
You are a sparkling diamond, a fine wine, a beautifully scented rose.
You are MY REASON for living. Your love gives me hope and clarity.
All I need is you in my life. I won the jackpot meeting you.
Your heart is in my hand, and I promise to keep it safe. I want to keep making special moments with you.
You make me feel complete. I’m a better man because of you, and I’ll protect you now and forever.
I’ll always be true and faithful from today until eternity.
You are my soul mate, partner, and equal.
***
Ethan’s words are magical and reach depths in my soul I never knew were there.
We dance and gaze into each other’s eyes. “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer is our wedding song, and life is finally the way it’s supposed to be.
It might have been one hell of a rocky road to get to where we are, but I thank my lucky stars that I finally got my happily ever after.
I wake up slowly, my surroundings gradually registering in my sleep-hazed mind. My entire body feels alive for the first time in years. There is a delicious ache between my legs and a light sheen covers my body, causing the eight hundred thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets to stick slightly to my naked form. There is no doubt, I’ve been freshly fucked. How different was my life a mere forty-eight hours ago? I stretch my tight muscles, letting out a low moan in the process. That felt so good. Hearing a deep throaty groan, I gently open my eyes and turn toward the sound.
I can’t help but smile at the Adonis before me, bearing the priceless gift of coffee.
“Kitten, you moan like that again and your coffee will go cold.”
I contemplate for a moment before throwing the covers back and revealing my wanting body. He is on me with the speed and enthusiasm of only someone ten years my junior can. As he slides his thick steel cock into my core, all thoughts of my previous life two days before disappear, replaced with pure bliss as he fucks me until I am well and truly satisfied.
The resounding beep of the alarm rouses me from a semi-deep sleep. Who am I kidding? I haven’t slept since the day I found out I was pregnant with twins. That was roughly eight years ago. I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. Don’t get me wrong. I have loved every moment of motherhood. I would do it all again in a heartbeat. There are days I miss the thrill of the chase as a hot-shot headhunter in New York. Now, instead of chasing men for companies, I chase two eight-year-olds around a soccer field and one five-year-old around gymnastics. The benefits are far better as well. Nothing beats “Mommy you’re the bestest”, the sticky kisses, or even “Mommy, I NEED YOU”. It’s better than any bonus check.
I roll out of bed, feeling every minute of my thirty-four years, and begin my morning routine of making coffee and breakfast for my crew. One of the benefits of being a stay-at-home mom with three kids in grade school is I never stop. I am in remarkably good shape, all considered. (Aside from the fact that my dear husband refuses to have a “drab” wife on his arm and makes sure my gym membership and Botox appointments are paid in full). It might be vain, but it’s my “me” time so I really don’t mind. I know plenty of women who would kill for a man to insist they take spa weekend trips like the one I have planned this weekend. According to Tristian, I “deserve it for all I do for him and the kids”. He truly is a remarkable man. He never complains when I take shopping trips, or the kids on extravagant outings. He just rolls with it, saying “I can’t take it with me [when I die]”. I love this man. I couldn’t ask for a better husband and provider.
Granted, we have our problems like everyone else, but we are content. Our sex life isn’t bad, it’s great, now. It’s not explosive like the books I read, but I am a grown-ass woman, I know damn good and well that those stories are purely the imagination of women behind a computer screen. Sex can’t really be that EXPLOSIVE. The thought of my books reminds me I need to pack my Kindle for this weekend. I fully intend to catch up on the latest Rom-Com, FireBall. It’s supposed to be quite the laugh.
I get my motley crew fed, off to work and school, before I sit down with my now cold cup of coffee. Reheating it, I open my computer, noticing Tristian left his email open. Just as I’m about to exit the program and check my reservation confirmation for my trip, a name catches my eye. An email from Dr. Rosen is in his inbox. Why would Dr. Rosen email Tristian but not me? Once I open it, I feel like a rock is crushing down upon my chest, I can’t breathe, I can’t move, I am rooted to this spot. I am ripped back to reality when my coffee cup crashes to the floor, showering me with scalding coffee, it is only then I realize I quit breathing. I reread the email on the off chance it was sent to the wrong person:
Tristian,
As you requested, we perform an embryonic parental DNA test. Results conclude there is a ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent chance you are the father. The baby’s heart rate is healthy and right on target for an August delivery. If you have any other questions or need anything else, please let me know.
On a personal note, please remember that while patient confidentiality prevents me from saying a word to Savannah, I would suggest you let her know before anyone else does.
Sincerely,
Dr. Rosen
I stare at the screen in disbelief. No, there’s no possible way. I mean, the email suggests otherwise, but why, why would he cheat on me? Who is she? I scroll through his email inbox, searching for any clue I can find as to who “she” is… aside from a fucking homewrecker. After what feels like hours of digging (it could have been mere minutes, who knows?) and finding nothing, I scroll back to the email that has essentially changed the course of my life for eternity. There is no coming back from this. I reread it, noticing an attachment at the bottom which I missed before. Hesitant to open it, as if it’s a bomb threatening to detonate in my face, I click on the icon. It is a copy of the paternity test, with her name. Right there. In bold print. Alison Nicholas. The name rings a bell. It takes me a moment to place it, but I finally realize, it’s his fucking secretary. If memory serves me correctly, she is in her late twenties, blonde hair, cute. Nothing to shake a stick at, but not ugly.
Closing the laptop, I stand and head through my kitchen toward the wet bar. I pour myself four fingers of Tristian’s prized Remy Martin Louis XIII Cognac. At roughly three grand a bottle, it’s saved for special occasions. This, my friend, constitutes a special occasion. I throw back the glass of liquor before pouring myself four more fingers. I take my glass as I walk through my house, mindlessly looking at all the pictures on the walls. I have taken great care to make our six-bedroom house a home. Yes
, we entertain frequently, but we live here, too. There’s a wall dedicated to the kids’ art work, with this cute idea I found on Pinterest. It’s a stencil reading “Look What We Did!”, with their little finger paintings covering the wall. The wall directly opposite boasts Tristian’s degree and mine. I lean against the wall and slide down, tears filling my eyes as I stare at those pieces of parchment paper. It all seems so alien now, a facade, years of memories with someone who isn’t what I perceived them to be.
It’s as if it was just yesterday, yet a completely different world at the same time. Staring at those two degrees reminds me that I am so much more than a mom and a trophy wife. I graduated high school and went straight to college. I received my Bachelor’s Degree before heading straight into the university’s fast track program, and completing my Master’s a mere two years later. By twenty-four, I was engaged to Tristian, the most sought-after recruiter, and all around bad-ass. Tristian and I spent our first years of marriage as the quintessential newlyweds. Our sex was dynamite; we were insatiable. That, of course, slowed down when I became pregnant with the twins. Complications during pregnancy, followed by the extreme exhaustion that follows any newborn, our sex life diminished dramatically.
I’d attempted to go back to work, but found it was too stressful. I missed the boys, had no time for myself or Tristian, and I was miserable. It was his idea I should quit and stay at home. At first, I balked. I didn’t spend years in school to simply throw it away and just be a “mom”. Then, as I laid there nursing my boys one night, I realized there was no job that could compare to motherhood. The next day, I quit and never looked back. With more time at home, I fell into a routine with Tristian and the boys. Three years later, we were blessed with a little girl. Now juggling three kids and our home, I found myself perpetually exhausted. That’s when Tristian began sending me on my spa weekends. After the first weekend away, I came home refreshed and energized, leading to the best sex we’d had in a long time. Naturally, he never complained any time I went on a “spa trip.”
Tristian found me still sitting on the floor of the hallway with the bottle of cognac, staring into space, when he came home for lunch.
“Savy, baby, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He approaches me tentatively. His deep voice, calming, caring. Fresh tears of anger fill my eyes as I picture him plowing into his secretary, moaning in ecstasy as her young lithe body writhes beneath him.
“Was it worth it?” I push out through gritted teeth before taking another pull straight from the bottle. My mother in all her Emily Post grandeur would throw a fit. A lady never drinks directly from the bottle.
“Was what worth it baby?” he asks, looking puzzled.
“Fucking your whore of a secretary. Was it worth it? I mean, it must have been. You’ve been fucking her long enough that she’s five months along carrying your child. Was it worth it, Tristian? Was her pussy worth losing your family?”
At my words he turns ghost white. I fear he may pass out. Let the fucker fall on his face. It would serve him right. My words bring him to his knees in the middle of the hallway. I stand up and begin walking toward the bedroom, intent on packing my shit. He wants to make a family with this bitch? Let him.
“Baby, please it meant nothing. It was a mistake. I realized it was a mistake and by then it was too late. She was pregnant. I am so sorry...”
I cut him off by throwing the half empty bottle of cognac at his head. Lucky for him, he ducks, and it misses its mark by an inch.
“Don’t you fucking BABY me, Tristian. The moment you unzipped your pants you knew what the fuck you were doing. You didn’t accidently slip and your dick land in her pussy. You KNEW what choice you were making. You CHOSE to fuck her. Now you get to deal with the consequences.”
With that, I turn and head to the bedroom slamming the door before heading into my walk-in closet. I throw a few items in a bag and call my mother telling her something has come up and I need her to keep the kids. Ever willing to play the doting grandmother, she readily agrees. With the kids taken care of, I arrange an Uber. I am in no way fit to drive. Even if I hadn’t downed half a bottle of alcohol, I would still be incapable of operating an automobile.
I open the bedroom door to find Tristian leaning against it with his head in his hands and eyes filled with tears.
“Please baby, don’t leave me. Don’t do this over one mistake. I’m sorry. I need you.”
“Do you, Tristian? Do you need me? Did you need me when you had her bent over your office desk or wherever you deemed it suitable to fuck her? Did you need me when you got her pregnant? Or do you just need me now that you have thrown away your family? When exactly in all of this did you need me?” He says nothing because there’s nothing he can say.
“I’m taking the kids to my mom’s, then I am going to the spa. I expect you to be out of my house by the time I return on Sunday. Go stay with your little whore. I’m certain she wouldn’t mind.”
I kissed my kids goodbye and hopped in the Uber, headed to Bella Noche, my favorite retreat. From the moment one walks in the door, the place screams elegance and serenity, the spa is bathed in light green, sea blue, and a roasted oat color; all colors guaranteed to soothe and calm each person who graced the threshold of the famous resort.
As I walk up to the reservations counter, I’m fully aware that I look like this is the last place I belong. I’m dressed in black yoga pants with my hair in a messy top knot, a loose sweater hanging from one shoulder, my face free of any makeup, sunglasses covering my eyes. In short, I look a hot mess.
After I put the kids to bed, I spent all night before hiding in my old bathroom while crying my eyes out. Needless to say, my eyes look like I went three rounds in the ring with Ali at how puffy they are. Glancing around the lobby and seeing all the ladies covered in today’s latest fashions while I looked like a bum completely out of place, my self-esteem takes another dive.
I check in, my eyes down cast the entire walk to my suite. I just can’t deal with anyone right now. I fear they would see my failure as a wife. I mean, I had to be doing something wrong, right? For him to cheat on me like that. I had to do something wrong. I mean, maybe I wasn’t as good in bed as I thought….
I strip down naked, getting ready to put my bathing suit on and stare at my reflection. I’m not rail thin like his secretary. My breasts aren’t as perky as they use to be, but they nursed three kids. I have some meat on my bones, but I always thought it lent me a voluptuous look. I am fit, not like fitness model fit, but an “I spend 3 days in the gym and chase after kids” type of fit.
Glancing at my “mom suit” as Tristian jokingly called my tankini’s, I throw it in the trash. Fuck him. Slipping my sundress on, I head to the Resort shop.
I pick out the slinkiest black bikini I can find with the matching sheer cover up and some cute black wedges. Fuck him. He wants to step out on me, he can pay for a new bikini. I am going to feel sexy even if I don’t look sexy.
I know I sound like a woman possessed with three different personalities. My emotions bouncing from guilt to anger to revenge seeking… whatever. I am just rolling with it.
I find a seat next to the pool and pull out my Kindle. I have downloaded it with all the trashiest books, centered around scorned women who get their revenge. If only life really worked that way.
It may only be ten in the morning, but Bloody Mary’s are breakfast drinks. I order a one and sink into my Kindle. My goal is to be completely tipsy before my body wrap at three p.m.
I manage to accomplish my goal of being quite sloshed by the time three o’clock rolls around, I am about six Bloody Mary’s in and ready for my detox body wrap. I unass myself from the lounger I have been planted in since morning and head towards the spa. As I walk passed the pool, I feel a set of eyes on me. Stopping momentarily to see if anyone is staring at me or if my drunk ass is imagining things, I notice a set of gorgeous green eyes pinning me in my place. With his stare, my entire body heats and wetness floods my co
re. Blushing profusely, I turn and head indoors. I need a cold shower from a single look! Damn, I must have drank more than I thought.
Once the technician has me sufficiently wrapped and submerged to my neck in mud, she leaves me to my thoughts. Shockingly, my thoughts are not on my cheating husband and his whore Allison. They turn to the piercing sea green eyes I saw at the pool. He was young, blonde, muscular. I could see the cuts in his tanned muscles. My body clenches at the thought of what he had hidden below the water. I close my eyes and drift to a gentle nap with dreams of my new mystery man using those strong hands to caress my body to bliss.
After my wrap, I decide to get a little something in my stomach before heading back to the pool and resuming my goal of spending the day tipsy. With a light lunch of a turkey club, I head back towards the pool. Not before stopping at the boutique and purchasing three more bikinis exactly like the one I am wearing now, triangle top with a ruched bottom, in different colors. One for each day I am here. My soon to be ex wants to get his girlfriend pregnant, he can buy me new swimsuits… fucker.
Content with my purchases, I head back to my spot at the pool. I notice these little cabanas off to the side. They offer an air of privacy. You can close the curtains, open the sunscreen and still get sun, and you have a personal “cabana boy”. What more could you want? I rent one of those for the remainder of my stay and set about situating the lounger, which truth be told looks more like a couch. I am in the process of arranging the lounger when I feel someone behind me.
“Here, let me help you.” The deep voice rolls over my body like syrup. I turn and am face to face with the man from the pool earlier. I feel my body heat slightly as I scoot out of his way.
Overzealous Alphas Page 30