THE ex-lovers met in a hotel room that smelled faintly of vanilla air freshener and desperation.
Shantel had chosen the room herself— presidential floor, dim golden lighting, curtains drawn halfway to give the illusion of privacy without completely shutting out the city lights. She wanted the setting to speak before she did. She wanted him to see effort. To see sacrifice. To see that she was serious.
Charles had agreed to see her on one condition: she had to prove she truly wanted him back.
And Shantel had interpreted that in the most dramatic way possible.
So she booked the hotel. Ordered champagne chilling in a silver bucket by the bedside. And now she stood in front of the mirror wearing nothing but delicate lace underwear that hugged her curves like a promise.
Why not?
She was de
