Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
Nothing fun or interesting going on with me—I'm just Jane. Married Jane.
Or am I?
How did I let myself get tangled in all this drama over a man who only cares about himself?
And no—I’m not talking about my husband.
I stood by the window of the small two-bedroom apartment I share with my husband, Steven. We’ve been married five years now, and honestly, for some of us, it’s felt more like a decade of slow decline. More downs than ups.
Lately, I don’t know… I’ve just been feeling so bored. Completely and utterly bored.
Steven and I haven’t had sex in a year—
With each other, that is.
I know what he's been doing. He thinks I’m too dumb to notice, but I know everything.
And honestly? I’m too exhausted to care.
We live separate lives.
He stays in his lane, and I stay in mine.
We talk, but barely—and only about things that need talking about. Bills, repairs, groceries. That kind of thing. We don’t have any kids—Steven never wanted them, and I… well, I just accepted it. Just like I accepted so many other things over the last five years.
I’m finally starting to realize that Steven and I don’t belong together. The spark’s gone. There’s no light at the end of this tunnel. But still, for some reason, we stay.
I own a clothing store downtown, so we chose to live in the city. It made sense—easier for both our jobs. And it’s worked out. We’re not the suburban type, anyway. I’m not domesticated like that.
My store’s called Plain Jane. Yeah, I know—it sounds cheesy. But trust me, there’s nothing plain about my clothing line. Honestly, that store’s the only colorful thing in my life right now.
“Okay, I’m off.”
Steven’s voice cut through my thoughts like a rude slap.
I turned to him. “Have a good day, honey,” I said, flashing one of my perfectly rehearsed fake smiles. I’ve mastered them over the past two years.
It wasn’t always like this. We had good times, even great ones. But over time, we just drifted apart. No shared interests. No passion. No us.
I don’t go out. I don’t party or meet friends after work. I’ve turned into what they now call a “homebody.” Meanwhile, Steven is never home—always “working late,” which, let’s be real, we both know what that means.
Ever since I found out about his cheating, I’ve stopped sleeping with him altogether. Not that he noticed—he's too busy screwing half the women in his office.
These days, we talk only about responsibilities. Is the house paid? Is the car due?
Emotionally, we’re just… empty.
When I’m not at the store, I’m home watching movies or reading. Occasionally, I’ll have lunch with someone from work. Lizzy’s my assistant, my closest friend, and honestly, the only person I trust. She’s been working with me for seven years. Loyal to the core.
She’s married with three kids, so we don’t hang out much after hours, but we talk on the phone almost every day.
Lately, I’ve been feeling this gnawing frustration—at myself, mostly.
I’m craving something… exciting.
Something wild.
I need a thrill. A real one. I’ve never been much of a thrill-seeker, but lately, I feel like my life is fading into the background—and I can’t let that happen.
Friday, 8:00 PM.
I’m lying in bed, pretending to watch a Spanish soap opera, but really, I’ve been lost in thought. I don’t even know what’s going on in the show. My mind is somewhere else—probably out there with Steven and whatever woman he’s spoiling tonight.
Meanwhile, here I am, looking like a mom of five—frizzy hair, oversized sweatshirt, fluffy socks. I’ve got bags under my eyes from too much screen time. I sleep plenty, so it’s not that. I just look… exhausted.
No wonder Steven strayed.
I wouldn’t want to come home to this either.
I turn off the TV and try to sleep, but it’s pointless. I know Steven’s not coming home tonight. If he’s not back by eight, he’s out till morning.
He’ll waltz in with some bullshit story about working an “all-nighter” and rush to shower before getting anywhere near me.
I do his laundry—I can smell the perfume on his clothes.
Tossing. Turning. Restless.
Half an hour later, I give up. I drag myself to the kitchen and pour a glass of wine. Standing in front of the fridge, something hits me—a sudden surge of energy.
I need air.
I hop into the shower for a quick rinse, get dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and boots. It’s a little chilly, so I grab my leather jacket. Just enough makeup to look alive, and I’m out the door. I don’t know where I’m going—I just need to go.
I drive. And drive. And then drive some more.
Thirty minutes later, I realize I’m no longer in the city. I’m in Arcane Falls—a small town about 20 minutes outside.
How the hell did I even get here?
I’ve never been before. I’ve heard of it—but never good things. Supposedly sketchy. Dangerous even.
Just as I’m about to turn back, I see a glow at the end of the road. Neon blue and purple. It draws me in.
The Sandy Sip.
A bar and grill. Surprisingly busy, with people walking around and cars going up and down. Not as scary as I expected. Actually… kinda charming.
The sign says open till 2 AM, so I pull into a spot near the entrance. There’s a bouncer at the door. He gives me a look, then nods and steps aside.
Okay, maybe it is safe.
Inside, the lighting is low and warm. Romantic almost.
Rustic décor. Round tables. A small dance floor and stage—probably for karaoke. A couple slot machines. Two pool tables.
It’s a big space, but the layout feels cozy. Intimate.
I find a small table tucked in the corner near the bar and sit down. I’ve barely settled in when a stunning woman approaches. She doesn’t look like a waitress, but then she pulls a notepad from her back pocket and a pen from behind her ear.
“Good evening, ma’am,” she says with a bright smile.
“Hi… um, yes, good evening.”
“What can I get you?”
I glance at the menu but can’t decide. “I’ll just have a glass of wine for now, thanks.”
She nods and heads off.
The music is perfect—just loud enough to drown out the background noise but soft enough to think. I take in my surroundings. Two guys are failing miserably to hit on the same girl at the bar. A couple’s making out in the love booth like teenagers. A group of girls across from me is downing shots like it’s a sport.
And then…
There’s him.
A handsome guy sitting at the bar. Young. Dark-haired. His eyes are locked on his phone, sipping what looks like scotch on the rocks.
He glances up—and I instantly look away.
God, I hope he didn’t catch me staring.
“Hi!”
I jump. That voice. I look up—and it’s him.
I freeze. This man is ridiculously attractive. His skin, his hair, those lips…
“I’m Bain,” he says, offering his hand.
I stare at it, mesmerized. His fingers are perfect. I don’t even realize I haven’t responded until he chuckles.
“Bain, leave the lady alone,” the waitress says as she returns with my wine, grinning at him playfully.
“Is this man bothering you, ma’am?” she asks, teasing.
“Um, no. No, it’s okay,” I say, laughing awkwardly.
“I’m Jane,” I say quickly. “Nice to meet you both.”
We shake hands. She introduces herself as Mea, then walks off, flashing Bain another sly smile. He takes the seat across from me.
“So, Jane. Where you from?” he asks.
“The city,” I reply, trying to keep cool.
He glances at the ring on my finger. “You married?”
I hesitate. “Yes, I am. What about you? Married? Kids?”
He laughs. “No and no. I’m not that guy.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, sipping my wine.
“Means I’m not relationship material.”
Oh. A player.
“Okay,” I say flatly, draining the rest of my wine.
He laughs again. “Did I scare you off?”
“Scare me off? From what? I’m married.”
He shrugs. “So? Nothing wrong with being friends, right?”
“I barely know you,” I reply, amused. “Why would I be friends with you?”
That cocky smile. That look. Butterflies erupt in places they shouldn’t.
Would it be so wrong to have a one-night stand?
I mean, my marriage is practically dead.
I wave over Mea.
“Can I get a bottle of red and two glasses, please?”
She smiles knowingly. “Coming right up.”
Bain raises a brow. “You want to be friends? Let’s be friends,” I say with a smirk.
Four glasses later, I’m drunk and oversharing. Bain is three years younger, but we click. I’m rambling about my life, laughing more than I have in years.
Then… I feel his hand on mine.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, watching me closely.
“I was thinking you must have an amazing body under those clothes,” I say—blame the wine.
That grin spreads across his face.
He stands, holds out his hand. “Come with me.”
I shouldn’t. But I want to.
“Trust me.”
I follow him through the back, down a hallway past the kitchen, to a storage room.
Before I can react, he presses me against the door, his breath warm against my cheek.
“You wanted to know what’s under my clothes. Now you can feel for yourself,” he whispers.
I unbutton his shirt, hands trembling as I run them down his chest.
He’s solid.
I reach his belt and slowly undo it. His pants fall.
He presses his body against mine, his arousal undeniable.
Our kiss is intense, electric.
But just as I’m getting lost in it… he stops.
“Wait—what?” I ask, breathless, watching him get dressed.
“You got what you wanted. And you’re married. I don’t do married women. Too complicated.”
That’s it?
“Cool,” I mumble, stunned.
I rush out before anyone sees the shame on my face. I toss some cash on the table and leave, trying to shake off the embarrassment.
When I get home, Steven’s car is in the driveway. I didn’t expect him to be here.
I sit in the car for a moment, collecting myself. Then, I head inside.
The house is dark. The TV’s on in the bedroom.
I stop in the bathroom, splash water on my face, try to sober up.
When I walk into the room, Steven’s asleep. Thank God.
I get undressed and slide into bed.
“Where have you been?”
His voice nearly makes me jump.
“Out,” I reply flatly. He doesn’t deserve an explanation.
He moves behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist.
Strange. We never cuddle.
Then he starts rubbing against me.
“Jane…” he whispers, leaning in to kiss me.
I don’t know what to do. But maybe… just this once?
I give in.
Next thing I know, I’m on top of him, riding him hard. My eyes closed.
Pretending it’s Bain.
I’m just about to reach my climax when Steven grabs me tighter and thrusts harder—
And just like that, he’s done.
“Thanks,” he mutters, pulling his pants back on and turning away.
I stare at the ceiling, tears sliding down my cheeks.
And all I can think is…
What the hell am I doing?
