Torn In Between My Ex Husaband And My Contract Husband

Melissa Moore was used to things going wrong.

Her alarm clock had a habit of failing her, her coffee always seemed to spill at the worst moments, and no matter how hard she tried, life never went quite as planned.

That morning was no different.

She sat on the edge of her bed, her phone clutched tightly in her hand as she stared at the frozen screen. The email with her interview details was buried somewhere beneath spam messages about discounts, newsletters she never subscribed to, and job rejection letters she hadn't had the heart to delete yet.

"C'mon, c'mon," she muttered, tapping the screen. Nothing.

Her stomach twisted. This was her last chance.

For the past month, Melissa had been scouring the city for a job-any job-that would take her with an art history degree and zero professional experience. She had lost count of how many times she had heard the dreaded phrase: We're looking for someone with more hands-on experience.

Greyson Art Gallery was her last hope, the only place that had agreed to an interview instead of dismissing her outright. If she missed this, she didn't want to think about what came next.

Sighing, she shoved her useless phone into her bag, grabbed her coat, and bolted out of her tiny apartment. The moment she stepped outside, she was hit with the crisp morning air, carrying the scent of freshly brewed coffee from the café across the street.

Her stomach growled, but she had no time to stop.

Her eyes darted to the bus stop a block away, and just as she reached the curb, a bus pulled up with a loud hiss.

For once, luck was on her side.

Melissa stepped into Greyson Art Gallery, feeling an odd mix of excitement and anxiety settle in her chest.

The gallery was sleek and modern, yet it had a certain warmth to it. The walls were adorned with carefully curated pieces-some abstract, others hyperrealistic-all illuminated by soft overhead lighting. The space smelled like fresh paint and old books, a combination that instantly made her feel at home.

At the front desk, a young woman with short red hair was flipping through a thick sketchbook. She barely looked up when Melissa approached.

"Can I help you?"

Melissa swallowed. "I-I have an interview with Devon Grey."

The receptionist finally looked up, arching a brow. "You're early."

Melissa blinked. "I am?"

She glanced at her phone-still frozen-but the time on the front desk's clock read 9:45 AM. She was supposed to be here at 10:00 AM.

For once, her tendency to rush everywhere had worked in her favor.

The receptionist sighed and picked up the phone. "Wait here."

Melissa nodded, trying to ignore the way her hands fidgeted with the strap of her bag. Her eyes wandered over the paintings nearby, each one seeming to tell a story. One particular piece caught her eye-a portrait of a woman standing beneath a stormy sky, her expression unreadable.

Before she could study it further, a deep voice called from the hallway.

"Melissa Moore?"

She turned-and froze.

Devon Grey was nothing like she had imagined.

She had expected someone older, maybe in his fifties, with silver hair and a quiet, wise demeanor. Instead, the man before her looked like he had stepped straight out of a fashion magazine.

Tall, lean, and effortlessly composed, Devon had sharp gray eyes that studied her as if he already knew everything about her. He wore a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His presence was intense-intimidating, even.

"Come with me," he said. No small talk, no pleasantries.

Melissa swallowed and hurried after him.

Devon's office was not what she expected.Instead of the cold, minimalist space she had imagined, the room felt... lived-in. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with thick art books, old journals, and loose sketches. A large window overlooked the city, casting warm morning light across the wooden desk.