Divorced by Him, Claimed by the Biker King

TESSA

The bristles of my brush danced across the canvas, blending soft strokes of blue and white as I lost myself in the rhythm of painting. The colors swirled together, forming something new, something almost alive. Then, through the quiet, I heard it-the low, familiar hum of an engine pulling into the driveway.

Garrett.

My breath hitched, my heartbeat quickening. He was home.

I had scarcely had time to set my brush down before I was racing out of the studio, almost upending a stool in my haste. My feet were barely on the wooden floor as I galloped thunderously down the stairs, my heart pounding with anticipation. It was many days since I'd last seen him-days that dragged without end because of his absence. And here he was.

The front door swung open just as I reached it, and there he was, stepping inside like he'd never been gone. His tall, commanding form took my breath for a second. His sharp features softened into a smile as his eyes met mine.

Without a word, I flung myself into his arms, looping mine around his broad shoulders, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne-warm spice and something distinctly him.

He chuckled softly, his strong arms encircling me. "Miss me that much?"

I buried my face against his shoulder, nodding. "You have no idea."

His arms tightened around me before he drew back, his gaze raking over me, assessing every inch. "You're pale, Tess." His voice was tinged with worry. "Have you been eating? Getting enough rest?"

I let out a sigh, not wanting to discuss my bout of illness, however short-lived. "I've been okay," I assured him. "Just a little off, that's all."

His brow furrowed, and he readjusted, bringing into view a bouquet of fresh lilies in one hand and a bag filled with painting supplies in the other. My heart literally melted at the sight-it always was, always so thoughtful.

"For you," he said, pressing the flowers into my hands. "And I grabbed some new brushes and paints. Figured you'd be running low."

A soft, warm laugh broke from me as I cradled the bouquet. "You know me too well."

He smiled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

He let out a small breath, then his expression turned serious again. "You were sick? You should have called me."

"It was nothing," I said quickly. "Just a fever. I'm better now."

"Are you certain? I can still get the doctor-"

I set my hand on top of his, shaking my head. "No. Truly you don't need to worry."

His mouth flattened to a thin line, but then he released a breath. "Okay. But if you start feeling the least bit unwell again, you let me know. okay?"

I grinned, pressing his hand. "Understood."

He pressed a soft kiss to my cheek, lingering for a moment before pulling away; his eyes said something I could not quite define. Guilt? Regret? But before I could dwell on it, he gave me a reassuring smile and brushed his knuckles along my cheek.

"I'm sorry for not being around to take care of you," Garrett murmured.

I shook my head. "You don't have to apologize. I know how busy you are."

"But you're my wife, Tessa. I should have been here."

There was an intensity in his voice, a weight behind his words that made my chest tighten. Garrett was always like this, so protective, so careful with me. Others whispered about him being controlling, keeping me closed off from the world, but they didn't understand. They didn't know what he saved me from.

He took my hand and led me back upstairs to my studio. My heart swelled as I watched him carefully unbox the new paints and brushes, lining them up beside my easel like he knew exactly where everything belonged.

"Perfect," he said, stepping back and admiring his work. "Now you have everything you need."

I smiled, warmth spreading through me. "You always take care of me."

He turned to face me, his expression unreadable for a moment before it softened into something almost wistful. "Of course I do, Tess."

All I could do, watching him, was think how lucky I was. How Garrett had saved me, taken me away from all the horrors in my life as a kid. He gave me a home where I wasn't afraid all the time, a place where, finally, I felt safe. People didn't understand-how could they, anyway? They didn't know what it meant to grow up under my stepfather's roof, to face my sister Lily with that smile so sweet, sugary-how she spewed venom when she spoke.

No, Garrett wasn't caging me. He was protecting me. Protecting what we had.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Get some rest, okay? I'll be in my study if you need me."

I nodded. "I know."

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into his study the way he did most nights. I knew better than to bother him when he was working.

I turned back to my easel, breathing in the familiar scent of oil paints and fresh canvas. It was reassuring, grounding. I dipped my brush into a deep shade of blue, letting my mind wander as I lost myself in the strokes of color.

After a while, the maid came with my usual herbal medicine. I reached for the cup absent-mindedly, but just as my fingers grazed the glass, it slipped.

The sound was like a slap, jolting me out of numbness. "Dammit," I whispered as I started to get down on my knees to collect the fragments. Pain jabbed my finger as a sharp shard of glass cut through my skin. A small bead of crimson instantly welled up, staining the floor.

I took a sharp breath in but ignored the sting and picked up the remaining bits of broken glass and mopped up the spilled drink .

There was still the smell of the herbal medicine-the acrid taste of it, almost stifling .

I should have gone back for another dose but didn't. I rinsed my hands and, putting a tissue around my cut finger, I headed to bed.

I changed into my nightgown, exhaustion settling over me like a heavy blanket. It was the weight of all that had happened: Garrett coming home, his worry, his embracing warmth. Something should have comforted me about that, but something beneath the surface I just couldn't quite name.

I slipped under the covers, closed my eyes, and, for now, totally forgot about taking my herbal medicine.

At first, sleep came easily. The quiet hum of the house was lulling, a familiar lullaby. But then-

A noise.

My eyes snapped open.

A door.

Downstairs.

I frowned, my heart skipping a beat.

Garrett?

I turned my head, expecting to see the soft light of the lamp in his study seeping under the door, but the hallway outside our bedroom was dark.

Why would he be going out this late?

Unease prickled at the back of my neck as I slipped out of bed, pulling my robe tightly around me. My bare feet barely made a sound as I stepped into the hallway, the cold floor sending a shiver up my spine.

I went down the stairs, my heart beating faster with each step. Perhaps he had forgotten something in his car, or maybe one of the staff had come in late.

But when I reached the bottom, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The front door was open.

And walking in, as if she owned the place, was Lily.

I caught my breath in my throat.

Lily?

Her very well-fitting, black outfit outlined her. Her long dark hair flowed in a cascade of perfect waves down her back. Unrumpled by the late hour, flawless makeup, lipstick curling to her lips-knowing-when she smiled to close the door behind her.

What was she doing here?

I went one step ahead but something hindered me-perhaps instinct-or perhaps a warning that I'd have been better off heeding.

Because what came next broke everything.

Lily sauntered by the foyer with an ease that sent ice through my veins, like she'd done this a hundred times before. And then-

Garrett stepped out of the shadows.

For a brief moment, relief flooded me. There he was. He'd seen her too. Maybe he would demand why she was here, why she had the audacity to show up uninvited.

But then-

He reached for her.

And she went willingly, falling into his arms with a practiced grace that made my stomach churn. Then, right in front of me, my husband-the man I had loved, the man who had promised to protect me- cupped Lily's face in his hands and kissed her. Not a polite, chaste kiss. No. It was desperate, hungry. The kind of kiss that stripped away doubt. That burned everything to ash. I couldn't breathe.

No, no, no.

I must have made a noise because Garrett's hands paused for half a second before he pulled her closer, his fingers digging into her hair.

My chest constricted. My legs almost buckled beneath me.

This was not happening. It could not be happening.

But it kept getting worse.

Because just as I was about to speak-just as I was about to force words out of my strangled throat-Garrett pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against hers as he whispered, "Didn't I promise to give you anything you wanted?"

And then, from his pocket, he pulled out a small velvet box.

My blood ran cold.

He opened it with practiced ease, and inside, nestled against the dark fabric, was a ring.

A perfect, diamond ring. A dead ringer for mine. My world started to spin.

Lily laughed low in her throat, her long, slim fingers closing around the ring on its velvet cushion, sliding it onto her finger as if she'd been waiting a lifetime for this day.

I grasped the railing beside me, my entire life balancing precariously on its axis.

It couldn't be. But it was.

Garrett hadn't just betrayed me. He'd replaced me.

TESSA

How was this possible? Why was this happening? How long had it been going on, too? Too many questions rolled through my head, each more painful than the last. My heart thumped in my chest, a frantic rhythm of disbelief and betrayal with every beat sounding like some cruel reminder of the life I thought I had-the life built on lies.

He loved me, didn't he? I replayed every moment, every whispered promise, every tender kiss that felt so real. The way he'd tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek like I was his whole world. The late-night talks, the spontaneous flowers, the soft "I love yous" that now rang hollow in my memory. But if he did, why was he with Lily? My wicked, conniving stepsister who'd always had a talent for taking what wasn't hers.

I looked down at my ring, the one he had just had resized because he claimed he got it wrong the first time. Four years-four long years-and somehow he never got it right? I'd laughed it off, teased him about his lack of attention to detail, never once suspecting there was more beneath the surface. But now, looking down at the thin band around my finger, it hit me like a ton of bricks: it wasn't a mistake. It would have fit Lily's finger perfectly.

A lump formed in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I forced myself to stay hidden in the shadowed hallway, my back pressed against the cold wall. My heart screamed at me to confront them, to demand answers, but fear held me in place. My ears strained to catch every word from the room beyond, even as I wished I could unhear it all.

"That bitch got sick a few days ago and hasn't finished the piece yet," Garrett's voice cut through the tatters of my heart, sharp and cruel, torn of the warmth I thought was meant only for me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, biting down on my lip until I tasted blood, willing myself not to cry, not to break. But his words were daggers, carving into the softest parts of me. Was that how he spoke of me when I wasn't around? The woman he vowed to love, to cherish, to protect? A vow that now felt like a sick joke.

A cold, hollow sound, like the scattering of shattered glass across the floor, followed from Lily. "Well, you need to hurry her up. The client's been on my neck for days now, wanting to see her latest piece."

I pressed my trembling hand over my mouth to stifle a sob, my fingers digging into my skin as if the pain could anchor me. My art-my soul poured onto canvases, every brushstroke a piece of me-was nothing more than a business transaction to them. My sickness wasn't a concern, just an inconvenience. My passion, my purpose, reduced to deadlines and dollar signs.

I thought I was painting dreams, but all along, I was just coloring the bars of my own prison.

Garrett's tone was cavalier, arrogant, laced with a smugness that made my skin crawl. "Tessa will get it done. All I have to do is buy her a few more flowers, kiss her on the forehead, and she'll be energetic enough to finish it."

I felt the air leave my lungs, a silent gasp caught in my throat. Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the edges of the dimly lit hallway I now stood in, clutching at the wall for support. Each word was like a cut, shredding the illusion I'd clung to for four years-an illusion painted with tender moments and whispered promises, all nothing more than a carefully crafted lie.

Flowers and forehead kisses. That's all I was to him. A puppet on strings he could pull with shallow gestures, a fragile doll he could wind up with hollow affection whenever he needed another masterpiece. My heart, which had been full of warmth for him, now felt like a brittle shard of glass cracked beyond repair.

"When are you going to divorce her?" Lily snapped, her voice sharp and impatient. "I'm tired of sneaking around."

The casual cruelty in her words was a slap to the face. Tired of sneaking around? She was tired? I bit down hard on my lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood as rage mixed with heartbreak. How long had this been going on right under my nose, camouflaged by fake smiles and forced sisterly affection?

Garrett let out a long sigh, the sound dripping with irritation, as if the very thought of dealing with me was a burden. "We've made a fortune from selling her paintings. If I divorce her, I'll never get another piece from her. How else do you expect to keep up with the name Moonlight when people ask about you?"

My knees must have buckled slightly under the weight of his words, crashing over me like a tidal wave. Moonlight, a name I'd built, an identity I'd poured my soul into with every brushstroke, every sleepless night spent perfecting my craft. They didn't love me; they loved what I could give them. My talent was their golden goose, and I was nothing more than the cage it lived in.

Lily's response was cold, void of any emotion. "I've retired."

Retired. Like my art was a job she could clock out of whenever she pleased. How my existence, my passion, my very essence had been reduced to a business arrangement between the man I loved and the sister I trusted. I mashed my fist against my mouth, muffling the sob that threatened to break free as my heart splintered into pieces too small to ever put back together.

Garrett's laughter was low and twisted, filled with an almost dark satisfaction that made my skin crawl. "No. The truth will out. But I can lock Tessa up and make her work for me even if she is my ex-wife. She'll be my prisoner instead."

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. A sharp gasp escaped before I could stop it, the sound betraying my presence. My hands flew to my mouth, trying to shove the horror back down, but it was too late-I'd heard it. Every vile word. My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest, each beat screaming run.

Thankfully, I was barefoot. There were no shoes to betray me with echoes on the hardwood floor. My steps were silent as I stumbled back, my body trembling, my mind screaming in disbelief. That's what I was to him: a prisoner. Not a wife. Not a partner. A possession, a tool he could lock away and use at his leisure.

I didn't stop to think.

I turned and ran.

Out of the house and into the stifling darkness, the cold rain slamming down like the sky itself was grieving for me. It soaked through my thin pajamas within seconds, chilling me to the bone, but I didn't care. The tempest outside was nothing compared to the one within. My tears mingled with the rain, indistinguishable from one another as sobs ripped from my chest in ragged, gasping bursts.

Four years.

Four years of lies, of manipulation, of love that was nothing more than a mask. They had deceived me, stolen from me-not just my art, but my trust, my heart, my life. I'd been nothing more than a prisoner in a gilded cage, too blind to see the bars crafted from sweet words and tender gestures.

My feet hit the pavement, slick and cold beneath me. I didn't know where I was going, only away from the house, from them, from the truth that was too unbearable to be faced.

I stumbled onto the road, blinded by tears and rain, my mind reeling in a storm of betrayal and heartbreak. The world around me was a haze of darkness and headlights; the distant noises were drowned out by the deafening roar in my ears.

Then-a blinding flash.

A headlight too close, too fast.

The screech of tires ripping through the rain-soaked silence.

The roar of an engine, strain-ing to swerve.

I froze, my body refusing to move, rooted in place by fear and heartbreak. The bike missed me by mere inches; the rush of air in its wake knocked me backward. I fell on the wet pavement, scraping my knees against the rough asphalt; the cold seeped into my bones.

I lay there, shaking, soaked, and shattered.

The echoes of their betrayal still rang in my ears, louder than the storm around me.

ZANE

In every sense of the word, my life was fucked up. The kind of messed-up that didn't come with neat labels or easy fixes. Just an endless loop of mistakes, regrets, and battles I never signed up for. My latest fight with my father still echoed in my head, his words sharp as broken glass, my anger burning hot enough to leave scars if I let it.

That was why I rode.

The only thing that made sense was the bike. The roar of the engine drowned out the noise in my head, the wind slicing through my thoughts like a blade, leaving nothing but numbness behind. It was freedom, even if it was temporary. The city blurred past me, streetlights streaking like faded memories I didn't care to revisit. But fate has a twisted sense of humor, I guess, because right when I thought I could outrun the chaos, I found her.

She came out of nowhere, dropped in the middle of the rain-slicked road like she'd fallen straight out of the sky. One second, the street was empty; the next-there she lay, crumpled like a discarded doll, her soaked clothes clinging to her fragile frame. I swerved hard, the tires of the bike screeching against the wet asphalt as my heart slammed into my ribs with the same force I used to suppress every emotion I didn't want to feel.

I pulled the bike back into neutral, ready to leave. Not my problem. I didn't do damsels in distress. Not anymore. My life was complicated enough without adding unconscious strangers to the mix. But then, like a ghost from the past, I heard it-"Be good."

Her voice.

Her words kept echoing through my mind-soft but heavy, like they'd been sewn into the fabric of who I was, though I spent years trying to rip them out. For her, I could be good. Even if it was the opposite of who I'd become.

I killed the engine with a frustrated growl and swung my leg over the bike. The rain was relentless, soaking through my jacket as I rushed to her side. Her face was pale, framed by wet strands of hair plastered to her skin. She wasn't just unconscious-she looked like she'd given up on life itself. Something about that... it pissed me off.

I scooped her up without thinking; her body was limp and cold against mine. She was lighter than she looked, fragile in a way that made my chest tighten. My boots splashed through puddles as I carried her back to the bike, securing her as best I could before speeding toward the hospital. The rain lashed against us like it had a personal vendetta, but I didn't slow down. I just rode faster, like I could outrun the gnawing sensation creeping up my spine.

For this was a lot more than bad luck that was setting in. This seemed to be Fate that just thrown me in something I could never ride away from.

The hum of the bright, sterile fluorescent lights overhead cast an eerie glare on the scuffed linoleum floors of the hospital waiting room. I hated hospitals. Too clean. Too quiet. Like they were trying to cover up the fact that people bled and died here every day. But I would stay. I sat on one of those hard plastic chairs, dripping wet, my helmet still on my head, as if it might be some sort of protection from what had just occurred.

The woman-whatever her name was-was being treated behind closed doors, and all I could do was sit there dripping rainwater onto the pristine floor, feeling like I'd made a mistake getting involved. I wasn't the hero type. Never had been. But neither was leaving her there on that dark, wet road an option. Not with her voice echoing in my head.

After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, and Rafael stepped out, his white coat wrinkled from a long shift. His dark eyes met mine, and for a second, surprise gleamed beneath the usual tired guise.

"You can take off the helmet, Zane. It's safe," he said, his voice low but carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm he never seemed to drop.

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the chin strap like it was the last layer of armor I had. But finally, I yanked it off, running a hand through my damp hair, the cool air biting against my skin.

Rafael's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Didn't know you'd started going after women now."

I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Not like that, asshole."

He let out a loud bark of amusement over this. "So what did or didn't you do? You hit her or you didn't?"

I shrugged again, clamping my jaw tight. "I don't know. She was just there, lying in the damn road. Couldn't leave her."

Rafael's brow arched, his grin still wide. "Zane 'Ice-Heart' has feelings now? Damn, didn't think I'd live to see the day."

I snorted, rolling my eyes. "Shut up."

But his words lingered, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. Maybe I did have a heart, buried somewhere under all the wreckage. Or maybe it was just guilt-or habit-after all the times I'd failed to save the people who actually mattered.

"She gonna die?" I asked, more out of necessity than concern, though I wasn't sure I believed my own indifference anymore.

Rafeal's expression eased a fraction. "No. She'll be fine. And no, you didn't strike her. She wasn't even hurt from the road-just... exhausted. Shock, maybe. Whatever happened before you found her did more damage than the fall."

A minute later, he was called away by a nurse, leaving me with my thoughts and the rhythmic beeping of machines in the background. But I stayed, though. Don't ask me why-I didn't have an answer.

Eventually, curiosity-or maybe something deeper-pulled me to her room. She was lying there, tangled in white sheets, her face pale but peaceful in sleep. My gaze drifted to her hand resting on the blanket, a faint wound on her finger catching my attention. Something about it tugged at a memory buried deep-a girl from summer camp, laughter under the sun, a brief moment I'd locked away and never dared to revisit.

Just then, she stirred.

My heart twisted, an unfamiliar pang shooting through me. She was going to see my face. Instinct screamed at me to leave, to vanish before she could look into my eyes and see something I didn't want anyone to find. But before I could move, her voice-soft, hoarse-called out.

"Did you... bring me in?"

I went cold all over. Then, begrudgingly, I turned, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide the shaking of them. "Yeah. You were running like a maniac. Could've been killed."

And then she looked at me, really looked. Her eyes... God, her eyes. They were just like hers. The girl from camp. My mother's. The same softness, the same brokenness hidden beneath a frail shield of strength. It hit me like a sucker punch, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

She whispered, "Thank you."

I should've left right then. That would've been the smart thing to do. But instead, I found myself asking, "What the hell were you doing running under the rain at two in the morning?"

She went quiet. The silence stretched out between us like a fragile thread. Then her face crumpled, and tears started, carving silent tracks down her cheeks. I don't know why, but it was like someone had wrapped a fist around my heart and squeezed.

"My husband," she whispered, barely audible. "He's been having an affair with my... with my stepsister. And they-they stole my paintings."

I didn't think she'd be so forthcoming about it. Not to a stranger with too many tattoos and a temper he couldn't keep under control. But there it was, her pain, raw and exposed, was laid out before me like some open wound.

My mind screamed at me to shut up, to walk away, to leave her to whatever mess her life had turned into because it wasn't my problem. I dealt with criminals, not with cheating husbands and stolen paintings. My world was darker, and messier-a far cry from the tangled threads of broken marriages. But for some reason, my mouth didn't get the memo.

"Well," I said, settling back in the stiff hospital chair, my voice rougher than I'd intended, "you're in luck. I'm a lawyer. I can help."

The words hung in the stale air, and the look she gave me was almost comical-almost. Her eyes, wide with tears, flickered to the ink snaking down my arms, the faint shadow of a scar above my eyebrow, and the leather jacket slung over the back of the chair. She looked like she was trying to decide whether she'd just been rescued by a stranger or accidentally gotten herself kidnapped.

"You're a lawyer?" she repeated, her voice thick with disbelief, as if I'd just told her I was an astronaut.

I snorted, not bothering to hide the amused scoff. "Yeah. Hard to believe, huh? Don't let the tattoos fool you." I reached into my jacket and pulled out my ID, flicking it open with a practiced motion. The laminated card caught the harsh hospital light, my name and credentials glaring back at her like proof I wasn't some deranged biker off the streets. "See? Licensed and everything."

She stared at it a second longer than necessary, her shoulders slumping as the weight of everything she'd been holding in crashed down again. Her fingers, trembling, wiped at her face, leaving smudges of mascara across her pale skin, like war paint from a battle she'd already lost.

"Do you really want a divorce?" I asked, my voice quieter this time, almost careful.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, I thought she might come apart again, but then something in her eyes flickered like steel beneath that softness. She wiped her cheeks, clenching her jaw to get rid of the tears.

"I don't just want a divorce," she spat, the venom of fury in her voice now shaking it more than tears. "I want revenge. I want my name back. My paintings. My life. Everything they took from me."

It was the way she said it, like her heartbreak had crystallized into something hard and unyielding, that stopped me. In my line of work, I'd met plenty of people fueled by revenge. But this was different. It wasn't about pride or ego at all. It was about survival.

And maybe, just maybe, that was something I could understand better than I wanted to admit.