Forty. Divorced. Two kids.
I thought my story was already written.
Then I met my new neighbor. He’s not human. He’s not safe. And when he looks at me, I’m not invisible anymore.
He calls me Bella. He leaves fruit on my balcony like offerings. He kisses me like I’m worthy of desire.
I know better. Mothers like me don’t get swept into myths. We don’t get worshipped by satyrs with wicked smiles and strong hands. We do laundry. Pay mortgages. Make spaghetti with jarred sauce.
But Cal isn’t offering safety. He’s offering everything.
And for the first time in years, I want it all.
