Page 1 of Hunter

Chapter one

Flex Dance Studio, London

October 2023

Isabella

“My wife! Take me to my wife, now!”

The domineering accent sounds over the thump of the dance music I wiggle my wide hips to. Even though I’ve not heard it for years, there is no mistaking the Irish lilt that cuts through what is predominantly an English accent.

“I won’t repeat myself,” it continues. “I know she’s here. I demand to speak with me wife!” The Irish becoming more pronounced as his anger boils over.

My Zumba class grinds to a halt as our instructor, Zara, exits to investigate the situation in the reception area. I know precisely what the fiasco is about. My estranged husband has received his divorce papers, and even though we haven’t been together since our wedding night, he’s here to stake his claim. I willnotbe entertaining his nonsense. He missed his chance.

Zara reappears minutes later in her bright pink Lycra catsuit, a blonde ponytail bobbing on her head as she skips back into the studio. She smiles broadly at the class, an obvious attempt to pretend everything is all right. Her eyes pause a moment longer on me than necessary, allowing her judgment to seep into my pores for a beat. I’ve caused the disturbance in her class. She won’t be happy.

“We will continue,” she purrs and restarts the music. We all fall back into step, moving to the beat that seems to get faster each week. I am mid-hip thrust when a tall, dark figure comes into view. Hunter Devane stands leaning on the doorframe, his focus set firmly on me.

With a large, tattooed hand, he pushes back his dark, shoulder-length hair, which hangs loose in waves. Our years apart have aged him, but now in his forties, he’s still as handsome as he was when we were in our late teens. Dressed in what is no doubt an insanely expensive suit, he lifts his wrist and squints at the silver Rolex.

“I don’t have time for this shit,” he mouths, and I roll my eyes before returning to following Zara’s lead. As I stare at myself in the wall of mirrors in front of me, he steps in to block my view of my jiggling body. “Isabella.” My name passes his lips as if he says it every other day. It sounds too damn good.

I glance up and look Hunter square in the eye before scowling dramatically, ensuring I crease every feature on my face so he knows how pissed I am at him. After all these years of living apart but staying married due to family tradition, how dare he come here and demand an audience with me.No fucking way.

“Isabella,” he repeats, his voice fiercer. “We need to talk.”

“You are blocking my view of the instructor, Hunter. Kindly fuck off and don’t return. All communication should be made through my lawyer.”

Secretly, I am delighted that I was able to speak while dancing. Usually, I am so busy attempting to catch my breath that I can barely whimper in pain from the exertion, never mind hold a conversation. I flick my long, black plait over my shoulder and onto my back for added effect. He glares at me, then reaches for my arm.

“Touch me, and I’ll scream.” His furious expression darkens with my warning. From the stories I’ve heard over the years, he isn’t a man used to being threatened; he’s typically the one doing the bullying. His fingers retract, but he doesn’t move away. “Hunter, leave. The time for talking was years ago.” Not that I gave him the chance.

“I won’t leave until you speak to me,” he replies, deadpan.

Exasperated, I narrow my eyes, hostile to the man I’ve been married to for twenty years. However, we have never lived a married life, per se. He made sure that would never be possible on our wedding night. I can never forgive him for the betrayal.

He continues to stand in front of me as if I’m not writhing to the urban beat. The women surrounding us keep step, but the tension in the room heightens with each second that passes. He narrows his eyes and smirks. Asshole. He’s been stubborn since we were kids, a male used to getting his own way. But sometimes you must lose the battle to win the war, and this is one of those occasions.

“Fine,” I concede, stopping dancing as my last breaths leave my body. My ability to dance and talk ended at the worst possible moment. “Meet me at the coffee shop across the street in an hour.” My eyes flick to the two bodyguards standing at the doorway to the studio. “And leave your goons outside.”

The ladies around me continue to dance as if nothing is happening, but their eyes sparkle with mischief as the scene continues. I see them looking at one another in the mirror. They are having silent conversations, questioning whether any of them know who this man is and what is going on. Who am I kidding? Of course they know who he is, but perhaps not his connection to me. Hunter’s known in every corner of London for all the right and wrong reasons.

“Hunter, leave,” I repeat. “You’ve made enough of a scene. I’ll talk to you. Now go away.”

“Thank you, Bella,” he says. His hand lifts as if to touch my cheek but doesn’t connect. He pulls it away like you would if you felt an open flame. My heart flutters at his use of my pet name,Bella. It’s not something he’s called me since our rose-tinted younger years. It was a time when I believed in true love and soulmates. I watch as he turns and walks away.

While he has maintained his fit physique over our years apart, I have aged more, as expected for a woman with a love of food hitting forty. It’s not for want of trying, but as the years have passed, my thighs have thickened and my curves have become more apparent. I still sport my hourglass figure, albeit a larger one, and I do the best with what I have.

Before I can overthink the complexities of our relationship like I have a million times, I go back to focusing on my Zumba class. The beat of the music and intricate steps allow me to forget the unexpected visit from my estranged husband and not mull over what will happen when I meet him in under an hour. I knew he wouldn’t be happy that I took matters into my own hands and filed for divorce. It isn’t a surprise he is pushing back. He never wanted any of this.

But neither of our families can demand we stay together now. Even if they tried, I’m far enough from Spain that they can’t make me do what they want. I make my own money, although none of them know it. This is a skill I have crafted as the beauty and mystery of the internet have developed in recent years. The ability to earn anonymously has given me a freedom I never expected to have, and the chance to walk away for good, without anyone holding my livelihood in their hands.

And at the end of the day, I would still be the ex-wife of the don of the Irish mafia. In our culture, he would still have some responsibility toward me. He has always taken those responsibilities seriously, even since the morning after our wedding when I told him I was leaving.

Back then, I thought we would reconcile. I believed he loved me enough to fight. However, my words that morning were venom, and he took my wish to be apart as a command. Though he controls his world with an iron fist, that day, I saw the guilt in his eyes—the acceptance that his actions were too much to be forgiven. He had lost me for good.

My decision to move forward with divorce wasn’t an easy one, but I suspect turning forty soon has something to do with it. Many of the women born into my world yearn for the life I have. A life of perceived liberty and the choice to do as they wish with little to no demands from the man they are forced to marry.

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