Revenge Tastes Like His Body

Delphine’s POV

They say true love makes a woman radiant. Noble. Beautiful.

But my marriage? It was a prison.

For seven years, I wore the shackles of "the perfect wife." I endured. I yielded. I bent over backward to keep the peace. Even when my husband banished me to the back row on our anniversary. Even when I watched him fawn over another woman right in front of me—I stayed silent.

I wanted to break free. I just didn't know how.

Then the yacht swayed, and my arm brushed against Theodore Sinclair.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did I.

When his fingers found mine beneath the blanket... when his voice dropped low against my ear and murmured, "When we reach shore, I'll give you exactly what you want"—

I was lost.

They say a woman who strays has no shame.

But when his lips met mine, I couldn't help wondering:

Is this it? Is this where my new life finally begins?

The third time Scarlett glanced back at me with that smug little smile playing on her lips, I knew today was going to be a disaster.

"Del, honey, you don't mind, do you?" Her voice dripped with artificial sweetness. "I get seasick so easily. I have to sit near the bow."

She was already planted in Lucian's side—in my seat.

I looked at my husband.

Lucian was busy adjusting her chair angle, too preoccupied to spare me a single glance.

"Delphine, just go sit in the back." His tone was casual, dismissive—like he was brushing off someone who didn't matter. "Scarlett's not feeling well."

Seven years of this. Seven years of marriage, and I should've been numb to being treated like I didn't exist.

"Fine."

I didn't argue. I turned and walked toward the back. Today was supposed to be our anniversary. Lucian had promised to take me on a romantic getaway. I'd spent a week preparing—only to discover Scarlett had "happened" to be invited too.

There was only one empty seat left in the back.

I froze when I saw who was sitting beside it.

Theodore Sinclair.

He lounged in his seat, long fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. His navy suit was impeccable but relaxed—no tie, collar slightly open, revealing a glimpse of his sculpted collarbone. His eyes were closed as if he were dozing, but the aura radiating from him warned everyone to keep their distance.

The most untouchable man in Sylvan City.

Twelve years. We'd crossed paths at endless charity galas, business dinners, society events—and never once had a real conversation. He probably didn't even know my name.

I took a deep breath, walked over, and sat down with a polite nod. "Mr. Sinclair. Sorry to disturb you."

His eyelids lifted. Just a glance.

Those eyes—deep blue, cold as a winter ocean—made me want to shrink back. But for a split second, I could've sworn his gaze lingered on my face a fraction longer than courtesy required.

Then he gave a slight nod and closed his eyes again.

As if I were just another nobody.

I looked away, my gaze drifting forward despite myself.

Scarlett was holding a strawberry up to Lucian's lips. Her fingers deliberately lingered on his mouth, her fingertip grazing his lower lip.

Lucian laughed at something she said. They were so close their breaths must have mingled.

That's when I noticed it—a faint red mark on Scarlett's neck.

Even a fool could recognize a hickey when they saw one.

Should I be angry?

Maybe seven years ago I would've been.

But now? I just felt... exhausted.

A bone-deep weariness washed over me like a tide.

Scarlett caught me looking and raised an eyebrow. Her expression said it all: See that? He's mine.

The yacht hit deeper waters and began to rock.

My body swayed involuntarily, and my bare arm brushed against Theodore's.

The contact was electric.

His arm was warm, dry. Even through the thin fabric of his shirt, I could feel the firm contours of muscle beneath. Where our skin touched, tiny sparks seemed to dance.

Instinctively, I started to pull away—

That's when I caught another glimpse of Scarlett up front.

She was resting her head on Lucian's shoulder, and his hand had found its way to her waist. His thumb traced lazy circles against the fabric, the gesture intimate and natural.

Something shifted inside me as I watched.

Not anger. Not sadness.

Something stranger. Something rebellious.

I didn't move away.

I let my arm stay pressed against Theodore's, feeling his warmth, savoring this tiny point of contact that had nothing to do with my husband.

A heartbeat later, Theodore opened his eyes.

He turned his head and looked at me.

But I still didn't move. If anything, I shifted slightly, pressing my arm more firmly against his.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did I.

The yacht rocked gently beneath us. Salt wind carried the scent of the sea. And the sound of my heartbeat grew louder and louder in my ears.