My Ruthless Ex Demands Me Back

The automatic glass doors of the Serenity Meadows Wellness Center slid open with a soft whoosh.

For the first time in three years, Kyra Curtis stepped out into the blinding California sun. She blinked, her eyes watering from the sudden assault of light.

A nurse with a kind face hurried after her, pressing a small gift bag into her hands. "For your new beginning, Kyra."

Inside was a single pink carnation.

Kyra produced a standard, hollow smile. "Thank you."

She turned and walked toward the curb, her steps steady, her expression unreadable. She opened the bag and pulled out the flower.

She stared at its delicate, ruffled petals. An image flashed in her mind-the violent struggle, the feel of hands pressing her down, the cold prick of a needle in her arm right here, in this very driveway.

The smile on her lips froze, becoming something brittle and cold.

Her hand loosened. The carnation traced a graceful arc through the air before landing perfectly in the public trash can by the road. A quiet, calm satisfaction settled in her chest. Her emotions were dead, and she was content with that.

A nondescript Honda pulled up to the curb. Her stepmother, Brenda, leaned over from the driver's seat.

"Kyra, hurry up. We have to get back for your father's birthday preparations."

Kyra opened the back door and slid inside. Her father, Dale Tucker, sat in the passenger seat. He didn't turn his head, merely grunting from his nose as a form of greeting. He was a man who had wanted a son and never quite forgave her for being a daughter.

The air in the car was thick with resentment. Brenda immediately began complaining about the time wasted driving all the way out here to get her. Dale was already talking about her stepbrother's upcoming golf tournament.

Kyra leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the world rush by in a blur. Her fingers unconsciously fiddled with a tiny, USB-shaped object in her pocket. A secret she had cultivated in the silence and sterility of the past three years.

The house was exactly as she remembered it-a perfectly average middle-class home in a faceless suburb, a place she had never truly belonged.

As she stepped inside, her father finally looked at her.

"Kyra," he said, his voice flat. "Now that you're out, we've arranged a blind date for you."

Kyra's heart gave no flicker of response. She knew this was just another transaction. She was a damaged asset they were trying to offload.

"He's a university professor," Dale added, as if that sanitized everything. "Clean family. With your situation, you're lucky anyone's interested. Don't cause us any trouble."

The unspoken words hung in the air: Don't be crazy again.

Kyra lifted her head, her face a mask of perfect, placid obedience. "Of course, Father. When is it?"

Her compliance was a balm to their anxieties. Dale and Brenda visibly relaxed, relieved that the "unstable" daughter wouldn't be making a scene.

She walked to her old bedroom. It was sterile, stripped of any personality, as if she had only been a temporary guest. She pulled a simple dress from her luggage and changed.

In front of the mirror, she studied her pale face. Three years of "therapy" had taught her one invaluable skill: how to hide everything.

This, she told her reflection, was only the first step.

Later that evening, Kyra sat alone at a reserved table in Aria, a high-end restaurant shimmering with crystal and quiet money. She had arrived early.

She watched the other patrons-the well-dressed men and women laughing, their lives untouched by scandal. This was the world she once knew, the world that had spit her out.

A prickle of discomfort ran down her spine. Her fingers found the simple, unadorned band on her ring finger, a relic of a divorce settlement, and began to twist it. It was a nervous habit she couldn't break.

The restaurant manager was obsequiously guiding a group toward a private dining room at the back. They moved like a constellation of planets around a central sun, a tall man whose back was to her.

Kyra's gaze lingered for a moment, but the distance was too great, the light too dim.

She looked away, a humorless smile touching her lips. It was ridiculous to even think it. He wouldn't be here.

"Excuse me, are you Ms. Kyra Curtis?" a gentle voice asked.

Kyra looked up. A man with kind eyes behind black-framed glasses stood by her table. This must be him, Nathan Foster, the professor.

She nodded politely, gesturing for him to sit.

Just as he did, someone in the distant group laughed and stepped aside.

The man they had been surrounding paused, turning his head slightly as if listening to an assistant.

The light from the crystal chandelier above caught the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face and glinted off the rim of his signature gold-framed glasses.

Kyra's breath hitched in her throat. Her lungs seized.

It was Julius Carlisle.

Her ex-husband. The man who had sent her to hell.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head. His cold, blue eyes cut across the entire length of the restaurant, landing on her with the precise, emotionless impact of a sniper's bullet.

Kyra felt her blood turn to ice. She was a frog, pinned by the gaze of a snake.