Page 1 of Date with A D*ck

HOME SWEET HOME

KeKe

I study the house—the one that took me over a year to find and several more years to remodel and furnish exactly to my tastes. Now, it sits completely dark.Where is Henrique?I wonder about my husband of eleven years.

Stepping out of the hired car, I grab my phone from my purse and unlock the front door. Behind me, the driver retrieves my luggage from the trunk and places it in the foyer. The moment he steps back outside, I lock the door, sealing myself inside.

Kicking off my heels into a corner brings instant relief, but the sight of them strewn haphazardly jolts me.What am I doing?Those are thousand-dollar shoes. I pick them up and place them neatly on the shoe rack.I must have lost my damn mind for a second.

There was a time when even imagining such an extravagant purchase felt impossible. Henrique and I clawed our way up from nothing. Now, pricey heels are standard, not a luxury—but that doesn’t mean I can act like I have no sense of decorum.

My mind thinks back to when we saved enough money to buy our first house. We sacrificed, living in a studio apartment in a rough neighborhood. No eating out. No movies. Noextra expenses. We cooked meals, brought lunch to work, and stretched every penny. I even learned to sew so we wouldn’t have to buy new clothes. Eventually, we saved enough for a down payment on a house in a nicer neighborhood—and we did it all over again for this house.

When I suggested we buy this dilapidated mansion, Henrique thought I’d lost my mind. But after the remodel, it became something stunning—better than anything we could have found on the market.

Over the years, the house has become a smart investment, paying for itself many times over.

Padding into the kitchen, the soft glow of the Calacatta Gold marble floors tells me the housekeeper has been here. There’s a vase of fresh flowers on the island with a card propped against it. I smile, warmed by the gesture. Henrique’s always spoiling me.

I had hoped he’d be home. I’ve been gone for weeks, traveling for work. What was supposed to be a quick trip turned into a whirlwind of client emergencies across three different countries. I love the travel—it’s a chance to see the world on someone else’s dime—but I miss Henrique. We’ve always managed to make it work, taking “mini honeymoons” whenever our schedules allowed.

This time, though, there was no overlap. No stolen moments. And now, the house is eerily quiet. I miss my man—his touch, his laugh. Though I’m exhausted and hungry, I want more than just food.

Our sex drive has always been off the charts, even after eleven years of marriage. Anytime he reaches for me, I’m ready—and vice versa. I saved myself for him, and I’ve never regretted it. Henrique has always been more than enough.

I imagined him greeting me tonight with his usual hunger, maybe even spreading me out on the kitchen island. But he’s nothere. No text. No voicemail. As far as I know, he didn’t have a work trip planned.

Carefully, I pick up the vase and the card and head to the bedroom. I assume the answer lies in the card in my hand.

In the bathroom, I strip off my travel-worn clothes and step under the hot spray of the shower. The water sluices down my body, washing away the grime of long flights and late meetings. I showered on the plane, but nothing compares to being home.

Though I’d like to linger, I know my food will be arriving soon. After drying off, I slip my feet into warm slippers and wrap myself in a plush robe, fresh from the heated cabinet. A quick skincare routine and some shea butter infused with vitamin E leave my skin soft and glowing.

I change into my Just Mercy pajamas. That brand is my weakness—whenever they drop something new, I buy it without question. The designer blew up after creating a wedding dress for a billionaire’s bride in Mississippi. I didn’t even know Mississippi had billionaires, but apparently, there are at least nine of them.

A ping from my phone alerts me that someone’s at the door. It must be my food. Henrique’s absence makes me cautious, so I open the nightstand drawer and retrieve my gun from the safe—just in case.

By the time I reach the door, the delivery driver has vanished, leaving my order behind. I lock the door and return to the bedroom.

Where is he? No messages. No missed calls. Nothing. Settling onto the bed, I open the takeout container. The rich aroma makes my stomach growl, and I dive in, shoveling food into my mouth until my hunger subsides enough for normal bites.

Finally, I turn my attention to the card. Smiling, I slide my finger beneath the flap and unfold it. But as I read the familiar handwriting, my smile fades. He’s left me.

Eleven years of marriage. Gone. Just like that.

I reread the letter, hoping I misread it. The same black ink. The same terrible words. The food turns to ash in my mouth, and a hot tear escapes the corner of my eye.

I think back to the first time I saw him—at a diner near the university campus where he worked bussing tables. He was six foot three, with a tan complexion, full lips, lush hair, and piercing green eyes.

His English was elementary at best, but from the moment our eyes met, I knew he was mine.

I went back to that diner every single day until he asked me out. I found out he practiced for two weeks to get the words right. From that moment, we were inseparable. We built a life together from nothing. And now, he’s gone.

I turn on a movie I’ve seen a million times, hoping its familiarity will soothe me. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to live without Henrique.

But tonight, I clutch his pillow, inhaling his scent, and brace myself for the long, restless hours ahead.

How dare he leave me like this.

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