Refurbished

Faye Matthews POV:

Tonight was the third anniversary of my engagement to Carter Hayes.

I had made plans with Carter to go to a famous restaurant for our anniversary candlelight dinner.

Before departure, I checked the passenger seat again.

The gift box sat there, a perfect square of dark blue tied with a silver ribbon.

Inside was a Patek Philippe watch, the one Carter had been talking about for months.

Just then, my phone lit up, and when I checked, it was a text message from Carter.

"Hey babe, team's calling for a last-minute practice. I'm going to be late. Can you go to the restaurant first?"

This excuse had appeared too frequently recently, to the point where I was starting to doubt it.

An instinct I'd been ignoring for months screamed at me.

I opened the "Find My Device" app.

We'd set it up when we were still deliriously in love, for "safety."

The little blue dot representing Carter's phone wasn't at the training facility.

It was five miles from our restaurant, at a scenic overlook known for one thing.

A place for lovers.

I started the car.

The windshield wipers swiped frantically, as if trying to clear away the lie in front of my eyes.

I didn't listen to Carter and drive to the restaurant.

I drove straight to that overlook.

At the end of the road, I saw Carter's car.

His black Porsche 911.

Tucked away in the most secluded corner, the car's body rocked with a gentle, rhythmic motion.

A white fog of condensation clouded the windows.

My heart didn't just sink.

It plummeted.

I took a deep breath, the air sharp and cold in my lungs.

Then I pushed open my door.

The icy rain hit me instantly, plastering my hair to my scalp and soaking my shoulders.

I walked toward the car, my heels clicking a lonely, sharp rhythm on the wet pavement.

Through the blurred glass, I could see two silhouettes, tangled together.

I pulled out my phone, shielding it from the rain with my body, and took photo after photo—the license plate, the rocking car, the fogged windows, the unmistakable silhouettes inside.

Then I switched to video, recording the steady rhythm of the car, the wet pavement, the timestamp on the screen. Evidence. Cold, undeniable evidence.

After all of this is done,I reached the driver's side and rapped my knuckles hard against the window.

The movement inside stopped.

A few seconds ticked by, each one a lifetime.

Then, the window slowly lowered.

Carter's face, panicked and pale, appeared.

Before he could stammer out a single word, the person in the passenger seat turned.

That signature mane of flaxen blonde curls, that face I'd looked at for twenty years—my adoptive mother's own daughter, Sienna Reynolds.

She saw me.

There was no guilt on her face.

Just the corner of her mouth twitching into a triumphant, mocking smile.

She was showing off her prize.

"Faye," Carter began, his voice a jumbled mess. "It's not what you think. Sienna was drunk, I was just..."

"Shut up!" I cut him off.

My face was a blank mask.

I walked back to my car, picked up the beautiful gift box, and returned to his window.

In front of them, I opened the box.

I took out the watch, its polished face gleaming even in the dim light.

Then I let it drop.

It landed with a soft splash in the muddy puddle at my feet.

Next, I pulled the three-carat diamond ring from my finger.

Without hesitation, I threw it at his face.

"We finished, Carter."

My voice was flat.

Devoid of all emotion.

I turned and walked away, not looking back.

Back in my car, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had saved for a day I hoped would never come.

The number for New York's most notorious gossip columnist.

"I have an exclusive for you," I said, my voice calm, cold, and steady. "Carter Hayes, star athlete, caught with his fiancée's sister. I have photos. I have video. I want him ruined. I want him disgraced. I want him to lose everything."

After I hung up, I slammed my foot on the accelerator, fleeing the place that had just suffocated my life.

I didn't know where to go.

I couldn't go home.

That house had never really been mine.

I drove aimlessly, the city lights blurring through my tears, and ended up at a quiet, upscale coffee shop.

I needed a place to disappear.

I walked into the warm, dimly lit cafe, drenched and broken.

My makeup was a mess of black streaks down my cheeks.

I was a wreck.

A barista approached, his face a mix of concern and irritation. "Ma'am, we're about to close, and you're soaking wet…"

His words were cut short by a low, magnetic voice.

"She's with us."

I looked up.

A man stood there, tall and imposing, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit.

His deep gray eyes, the color of a winter storm, watched me calmly.

But for the briefest instant, something flickered in their depths—a flash of recognition, so swift it was almost invisible, as if he had been waiting to see me for a very long time.

The barista nodded and quickly stepped away.

The man didn't ask any questions.

He had his assistant bring me a clean, dry blanket and personally handed me a cup of hot coffee.

His fingertips brushed against the back of my hand.

They were dry and warm, a stark contrast to my ice-cold skin.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He just gave a slight nod, then sat at a table not far from me, attending to his work.

He didn't bother me again.

His presence was like an invisible shield, deflecting all the stares and whispers, giving me a small space to breathe on the worst night of my life.

After what felt like an eternity, he stood up to leave.

As he passed me, he paused.

He placed a neatly folded silk handkerchief on the table beside me.

It was embroidered with the initials "BS."

"Clean yourself up," he said, his voice neutral.

Then he and his assistant were gone.

I picked up the handkerchief.

It smelled of cold wood and something clean, like winter air.

I watched his retreating back, my mind a swirl of confusion.

Who was he?

Why did he help me?

Somewhere at the edge of my exhausted mind, a faint, nagging sense of familiarity stirred—had I seen those eyes before?

But the weight of the night crushed the thought before it could form.

My phone buzzed.

A message from the gossip columnist I had contacted earlier.

"The press release has been written and published. You can take a look."

I clicked on the link he'd sent, the headline screamed, SHOCKER! Pro Athlete Carter Hayes Caught in Car with Fiancée's Sister, Affair Exposed!

Staring at the blurry but recognizable photo, I clenched the silk handkerchief in my fist.

The fabric was soft, but my grip was iron.

Revenge was just beginning.