My husband Preston smashed up the solo art show I'd spent three years building for Vivian, the poor girl we had sponsored through college.

"Chloe! What the hell did you send Vivian?!"

"She read your goddamn text and suffered a depressive episode! She nearly jumped off the rooftop!"

I looked at his furious face and the whole thing struck me as absurd.

"Preston. What exactly did I send? I told her that today was the opening of my show and asked her not to call you during it."

"She's sick! Why do you have to make every little thing a fight! If anything happens to her because of you — I'll never forgive you."

With that, he didn't even glance at me. He turned and bolted back out into the storm.

I didn't cry. I didn't even have the energy to be furious.

I turned to leave, but in the rain, I ran into Rowan—a classmate from college. He used to be the most popular guy at our school — sweet and hot. But now he was severely injured.

The torrential rain had soaked his shirt, revealing his perfect abs beneath.

Without hesitation, I took him back to my apartment.

Preston showed up pounding on the door, eyes red with rage. "Chloe — I'm gone for an hour and you drag some guy off the street into our bed?"

I sneered and stepped in front of Rowan. "If you can play free therapist to some other woman, why can't I try being a philanthropist?"

I stood in the wreckage of my gallery, staring at the broken glass on the floor and the slashed canvases.

This was supposed to be the debut of the solo show I'd spent three years preparing.

A room that should have been full of flowers and applause looked like a dump.

Half an hour ago, my husband Preston had come storming in like a man possessed and trashed the place.

"Chloe! What the hell did you send Vivian?!"

"She read your goddamn text and suffered a depressive episode! She nearly jumped off the rooftop!"

I looked at his furious face and the whole thing struck me as absurd.

"Preston. What exactly did I send? I told her that today was the opening of my show and asked her not to call you during it."

Vivian had sent me a mocking text a half hour earlier with a selfie attached — her in Preston's shirt, one shoulder bare, stretched out on a hotel bed.

She'd even followed it up with a voice message: "Preston said I was feeling unsafe, so he stayed the night. In my room."

"Chloe, honey. I'm going to need him a little longer today. You'll cut your own ribbon, right?"

Out of sheer spite I'd messaged back: If you like his leftovers, help yourself.

I hadn't even started to blow up yet. She was the one already making a scene.

When I didn't answer him, Preston kicked over one of the flower baskets next to him.

"She's sick! Why do you have to make every little thing a fight!"

"Galleries can be rebuilt. Vivian has one life!"

"If anything happens to her because of you — I'll never forgive you."

With that, he didn't even glance at me. He turned and bolted back out into the storm.

To save his poor, fragile Vivian.

I didn't cry. I didn't even have the energy to be furious.

Since Vivian had walked into our lives, Preston had changed.

Vivian had been the scholarship student Preston sponsored through college. After she graduated, she'd joined his company.

Then she'd been diagnosed with severe depression, and after that Preston treated her like a piece of porcelain — something fragile he might break if he let her go.

She had to be fed by Preston. Talked to sleep by Preston.

And the moment I said a word against any of it, he'd pull out the same line on me.

"Chloe, you're healthy. Can't you find a little empathy?"

I took a long breath and started picking the paintings up off the floor, one by one.

Thunder outside. The rain was coming down harder.

I shut the gallery and walked to the corner under my umbrella.

Under a streetlight, a soaking-wet man was crouched on the sidewalk.

He was in nothing more than a thin white shirt. His right hand was wrapped in a thick bandage, now stained dark red with rain and blood.

His head was down. He was shaking faintly.

I wasn't planning on getting involved — but the shape of him was too familiar.

I walked closer and tried, tentatively, "...Rowan?"

The man looked up fast. His face was bone-white under the rain.

The eyes that had once been sharp and bright were hollow.

"...Chloe?"

His voice came out raw, like he hadn't had water in days.

I frowned. My eyes dropped to the sorry state of his right hand.

Rowan tried to smile, and tucked the hand behind his back.

"Small accident. Some of the nerves are gone. I won't pick up a brush again."

Something inside me dropped.

Rowan Ellsworth had been an old classmate from college, a few years ahead of me at Pier Cove University. He'd been the star of the architecture program.

His hands had always mattered to him more than his life.

"Why are you out here alone? Haven't you been to a hospital?" I asked.

He shook his head like a stray with nowhere left to go.

"I don't have anywhere to go."

"The bank took my place. None of my friends will pick up."

Looking at him there — something in me that had been strung taut for weeks finally snapped.

"Come with me."

The rain soaked my umbrella, and I got a little wet too. My shirt clung to my body, the outline of my chest faintly visible, my nipples hard from the cold.

We hurriedly climbed into the car to get out of the rain.

His wet shirt clung tightly to his body, clearly showing his chest and abdominal muscles.

As I helped him into the passenger seat, I caught a glimpse of his crotch bulge out of the corner of my eye. The fabric was wet from the rain, almost revealing the shape of his penis.

My heart skipped a beat. How could it be so big? No wonder he was the guy every girl in our college wanted to sleep with.

As I got out of the passenger seat, his leg accidentally bumped against my thigh, his erect penis rubbing against my buttocks through his pants.

My heart raced. Preston hadn't had sex with me in six months. My body couldn't handle the stimulation; my nipples hardened, and they felt a little itchy.

Preston was always with Vivian, why couldn't I even look at this man a little longer?

I quickly shook my head, trying to banish the absurd thought, but my legs unconsciously tightened around my waist while I drove, and I became even wetter.

By the time we made it up to the downtown penthouse Preston and I shared, Rowan was shivering hard enough that his teeth were clicking.

We'd bought the place together. Most of the down payment, though, had come from me.

I found an oversized men's bathrobe and handed it to him.

"Go take a hot shower. Don't get sick on me."

Rowan accepted the robe, glanced down at his right hand, and went sheepish.

"Chloe... I — I can't undo the buttons with one hand."

His eyes were rimmed red. His voice had a wounded note just at the edge of it.

I sighed and stepped closer.

"Let me."

I stood in front of him and started undoing the buttons of his shirt.

But my fingers accidentally rubbed against his pecs.

He took a breath, his pants became tighter and tighter, and his cock raised a big bulge inside.

My face flushed slightly; the desire I had barely suppressed surged back up, and I couldn't help but become increasingly wet down there, my nipples itching more and more.

But Rowan was still a patient, so I could only pretend not to notice the change in him and continue unbuttoning my shirt.

His abs were perfectly sculpted, and droplets of moisture trickled down his muscles, sliding into his waistband.

I couldn't help but follow the droplets down; his penis was getting harder and harder, the glans visible through his trousers.

Rowan asked in a hoarse voice, "Chloe, there are still pants. Can you help me?"

My throat was a little dry. I nodded and was about to undo his belt.

Preston came stalking in, trailing cold air. He saw the scene in front of him and his face cracked.

"Chloe! What the hell are you doing!"

I turned. I didn't flinch.

"What, did you go blind between the car and the elevator? I'm undressing him. Obviously."

Preston was shaking. He jabbed a finger at Rowan. "You have some nerve!"

"I'm gone for an hour and you drag some guy off the street into our bed?"

"Have you two been screwing behind my back this whole time?"

I laughed, dry, and took a step toward him.

"Watch your mouth, Preston."

"Rowan's an old classmate from college. He got hurt. He has nowhere to go. I'm putting him up for a few days. That's it."

Preston gritted his teeth. "Putting him up? What do you think this is — a homeless shelter? Get him out of my house!"

I didn't move. "This house? I put down most of the down payment. I've paid most of the mortgage. I get half the say in who stays here."

"If I say he stays, he stays. If you don't like it, you're welcome to leave."

Preston stared at me like I'd slapped him.

"Chloe. You're telling me to get out? For a stranger?"

I laughed in his face.

"When you wrecked my gallery for Vivian, did you remember I was your wife?"

Preston was caught without an answer. His face darkened.

Right on cue, Rowan tugged weakly at my sleeve.

He looked pale, his shirt half open, that bare expanse of chest on display, his voice thin as paper, like he was about to pass out.

"Chloe. Don't fight with Mr. Hartley over me. It's my fault. I'll go. I'll stop bothering you."

He took an unsteady step toward the door — and didn't make it two paces before he sat down hard on the floor, cradling his bandaged hand and sucking in sharp breaths through his teeth.

I hurried over to catch him.

"Rowan — what is wrong with you! You're going to ruin your hand!"

I turned on Preston.

"Happy now? He's got a bad hand. Do you need to push him into his grave before you're satisfied?"

Preston's eyes bulged. He jabbed a thumb at his own chest.

"Me? I pushed him? He's the one putting on a show!"

A timid voice floated in from the hallway.

"Pres? Is everything okay? ...Did I upset Chloe?"

Vivian, wrapped in one of Preston's oversized coats, was standing at the door. Her eyes were red.

She took in Rowan on the floor and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh my god — sir, that looks awful."

The second he saw Vivian, Preston's anger flipped into tender concern.

He rushed over and drew her into the room.

"Vivian — what are you doing up here? It's windy outside. I told you to wait in the car."

Vivian bit her bottom lip. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, one after another.

"I was afraid — afraid Chloe was still angry with me. I wanted to apologize to her in person."

"Chloe — I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your show. I — I just read your message, and I lost control of my emotions."

As she spoke she folded herself deeper into Preston's chest.

Watching her — the whole, practiced little performance of it — made me physically nauseous.

"Vivian. Stop with the act in front of me. If you lose control of your emotions, go check yourself into a psychiatric ward. Why are you showing up at my home?"

I wasn't kind about it.

Preston went off instantly.

"Chloe! Do you have to be this cruel? Vivian already hates herself enough!"

I looked at him, cold all the way through.

"Cruel? You wrecked three years of my work. You waltz in with the one who caused it, crying in your arms, and you expect me to be grateful?"

Abruptly, Vivian clutched her chest and started gasping.

"Pres... I can't breathe... my pills..."

Preston panicked, patted down his pockets for her pill bottle.

"Vivian, don't do this to me! Take your medicine!"

He got the pills into her mouth, swept her up in his arms, and bolted.

"Chloe — we are not done with this! If anything happens to Vivian, I swear to God I will never forgive you!"

He walked out with her without looking back.

I watched them leave, cool as I could manage.

"Mind the door on your way out."

The door slammed. The apartment went quiet.

I walked Rowan to the couch and fetched antiseptic and fresh gauze from the first-aid kit.

"Let me see your hand. See if you've popped a stitch."

Rowan obediently held out his right hand. He watched me with something complicated in his eyes.

"Chloe. You've changed."

I didn't look up from the bandage.

"People don't change unless they're pushed. I used to think taking a step back would give everyone more room. People just took more."

Rowan let out a soft laugh.

"This way is better. Less of you to get stepped on."

"...Though, Mr. Hartley does seem very invested in that girl."

I paused for a beat and went back to the gauze, tone deliberately casual.

"Let him be. I stopped caring a long time ago."

Rowan looked at me, and something glinted behind his eyes that I couldn't quite place.

"Chloe... if — just suppose — you were single. Would you consider someone else?"

I looked up. I hit his eyes dead-on. There was a small, banked fire in them.

"I don't have the energy to think about any of that right now. Worry about yourself. Your hand's done. What are you going to do now?"

Rowan lowered his eyes and covered whatever had been in them.

"I don't know. Day by day. As long as I can stay near you, I don't mind doing anything."

I took it as a joke and didn't think twice about it.

After I settled Rowan in the guest room, I went into the master bedroom. I stood at the edge of the empty king bed, looked at it for a long moment, then dumped Preston's pillow and quilt outside the door.

If he liked caretaking so much, he didn't need to come back to this bed.