Hate The One You’re With (Happily Ever Mishaps #4)

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Caleb

Present

“So you’re getting a divorce?” Jacob asks on the other side of the line.

“No.” And that ‘no’ comes out more intense than I expected.

Honestly, when I married Emmersyn, I didn’t think things would get to the point that we’d be filing for divorce. I was willing to put the work into the relationship. She had in fact saved my parents’ home and the future of my siblings—maybe even mine.

Still, it wasn’t out of gratitude that I wanted to get to know her, to fall madly in love with her. It was . . . There was something about her that spoke to me.

Maybe my biggest mistake was trying to fit in her life, to belong to her, to give her my heart and expect the same.

“Let me get this straight, you want the lawyer to prepare the divorce papers, but you’re not divorcing her,” he repeats, his voice laced with confusion. I can practically see him frowning in that way of his, like he’s trying to solve a riddle that doesn’t have an answer. “Dude, I honestly think you should handle this yourself.”

“You owe me,” I remind him.

“Sure, but this is . . .fucked up. You’re practically sending this woman to the cleaners.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustration bubbling up. “Yes, exactly. But also, I need a document that lists all the assets I’ll be getting for agreeing to live with her for six months—and have it signed and maybe even notarized.”

“Right,” he says slowly, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle where half the pieces are missing. “And you want a postnuptial agreement so she can’t touch your assets.”

“Exactly,” I respond. Finally, he’s getting it.

There’s another pause. “Okay, I’ll have the lawyer work on this. He might want to know exactly the assets you’re claiming for that six-month period.”

“I’m sending you her grandmother’s will—I want everything including the company. We’ll get someone from the company to head to New York and do an inventory of her property. I want it all,” I reply. “But if you can, make sure they give me the Bentley now, as a symbol of good faith.”

There’s a beat of silence before Jacob lets out a low whistle. “The Bentley, huh? Because you don’t have enough cars.”

“It’s not about what I have, but what I can get. She wants my time, she’s going to pay for it,” I mutter, thinking of the twisted situation I’ve found myself in. It’s a second round of living with Emmersyn Langley but this time I’m ready for the woman she really is. Cold and heartless.

“Listen, from what you’ve told me, things between you two were . . . bad. But?—”

“She used my sister and got her into so much trouble—” I cut him off, my voice tight with barely controlled anger. I pause, taking a deep breath, trying to keep my composure. The memory of what she did still burns. “She put Clarissa in danger so many times and never once thought about the consequences. That’s the problem with people like her—they think everyone else is beneath them, just pawns in their little games. She’s never given a damn about who she hurt, as long as she got what she wanted.”

My hands clench into fists at the thought of Emmersyn’s smug, entitled face. The way she plays with people’s lives as if they are nothing more than pieces on a chessboard. How she never hesitates to manipulate, to scheme, all while wearing that infuriatingly charming smile. She’s just like her grandmother, maybe even worse.

It wasn’t just the danger she put Clarissa in—it was the sheer audacity of it all. The arrogance of someone who believes they can control everything and everyone around them, without ever facing the consequences. And now, she’s roped me into this mess, expecting me to dance to her tune again.

But not this time. If she wants something from me, she’s going to pay through the nose for it. Because I’m done letting her get away with everything.

Jacob is still quiet, probably judging me and not thrilled with my actions. The silence feels heavy, so I finally say, “Imagine if this was Audrey’s friend and she’d done everything Em did to Clarissa. Wouldn’t you want to bury her alive?”

“Probably,” he replies, his voice laced with reluctant agreement, “but I’m sure Max would’ve taken care of her already.” There’s a shift in his tone, more understanding now, as if he’s finally getting where I’m coming from. “Send me the list of assets, and we’ll make sure to create an ironclad document that’ll probably leave her homeless and regretting the day she ever tried to play the Cunningham family.”

A triumphant grin spreads across my face naturally, the kind that comes when you know you’re about to win a game you’ve been forced into. Finally, Emmersyn will understand that messing with my family comes with consequences—ones she won’t soon forget.

Once I’ve arranged everything and I’m ready to be a part of her latest scheme, I finally call Emmersyn. I can’t help but scowl when I see her number on my hand—scribbles and pink hearts next to it. How dare she mark my skin that way? It’s infuriating, like she’s mocking me even through the fucking heart.

And even though I know I should calm down and not let my anger get the best of me, I just can’t contain it. I need to figure out how to hide my feelings when I’m living with Emmersyn. But the biggest problem is that she always brings out the worst in me.

When she answers, her voice is sweet and cheerful, like she hasn’t a care in the world. “Hi, Caleb. I was just thinking about you,” she says, all sunshine and rainbows, as if nothing bad is about to crash into her life.

The sound of her happiness grates on me, sparking a fresh wave of irritation. How can she be so damn happy when she’s the cause of all this chaos? I grip the phone tighter, my knuckles whitening as I try to keep my voice steady. But beneath the surface, I’m seething.

All I want is to see that smile wiped off her face, to crush the optimism she seems to cling to so effortlessly. She’s always been so damn resilient, but this time, I’ll make sure she never smiles like that again.

Yet, even as I think it, there’s a flicker of something else—something I don’t want to admit. Maybe it’s a twisted kind of hope that things will finally shift, that I’ll have the upper hand. Or maybe it’s the unsettling realization that part of me is still drawn to that exasperating smile, despite everything.

Then suddenly, it hits me. “Why the fuck would you be thinking of me?” I growl, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

“Oh, is that forbidden? Make sure to add it to your document—that lawyer must be thrilled with all your petitions,” she fires back, her voice dripping with sarcasm and quick wit.

I grit my teeth, her mocking tone only fueling my anger. “You’re mocking me, but I’ll make sure you’re left penniless. ”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” she replies, her tone infuriatingly calm, almost like she’s daring me to try.

She’s driving me crazy, making my blood boil. How can she be so composed, so unbothered, when I’m ready to tear everything apart? It’s like she enjoys pushing my buttons, knowing exactly how to get under my skin.

“You haven’t answered me—why were you thinking of me?” I press, my frustration barely contained.

She laughs. She fucking laughs. The nerve of this woman.

“Emmersyn,” I growl, trying to keep my composure.

“Clarissa called to check on me,” she replies nonchalantly.

“I told her to stay away from you,” I snap, irritation spiking. Clarissa was supposed to keep her distance, not cozy up to the woman who’s been the bane of my existence—and hers.

“Well, it’s all your fault for involving her in this mess. But that’s the thing about the Cunningham siblings—they like to meddle and then blame others. Very irresponsible if you ask me,” she says.

“Don’t you dare blame my sister for the shit you put her through,” I fire back, my anger flaring. Her laughter only fuels my frustration.

She laughs again, this time more heartily, as if she finds the whole situation amusing. When she’s done, she says, “So, are you doing it, living with me for the next six months? Or should I just head home and figure out how to help my people?”

“I’ll do it, but where are we going to live?”

“My grandmother’s penthouse. The lawyer just called to say everything will be set to my grandmother’s requests. Gotta love Percival—her former lover and lawyer—he’s a stickler at following rules, Gertrude’s more than anybody else’s,” she replies with a casual tone, as if it’s normal for an old lady to be fucking around.

“Sounds . . .” I trail off, my voice faltering as I think about her grandma’s private life. The thought alone makes me shiver. “Weird? Not that he okayed the penthouse, but she had a lover, and you say it out loud as if it’s nothing. Maybe call him her boyfriend?”

“She liked to call him her lover, but we can go with sex partner if you prefer. There’s nothing wrong with a healthy sexual appetite. Apparently, some women have enough libido to last them a lifetime,” she says, and I can practically hear the smirk in her voice, she’s doing this to make me cringe, isn’t she? “Good for her, I’d say.”

“Can we focus on this conversation?” I cut her off, trying to steer clear of the unsettling image or her jokes. I have to confess she can be funny more times than I like to admit. “I’ll be sending you the draft for the postnuptial agreement and the six-month agreement, which you have to sign before we move in together. I expect you to sign the revision of the divorce papers the moment the six months are over.”

“Postnuptial agreement?” she repeats.

“You don’t think I’m going to let you get any of my hard-earned money, do you?”

“Yet, you’re taking everything from me. The irony,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of defiance.

“Everything,” I repeat with a grin, savoring the thought.

“So you keep saying. I’m waiting for the evil cartoon laugh, though,” she quips.

“What?” I ask, taken aback.

“Yeah, you sound like one of those cheesy villains from a Saturday morning cartoon—you just need the laugh and the evil cat to pet while you try to take over the world. Very un-SEAL-y of you,” she says, clearly enjoying herself.

“Un-SEAL-y isn’t a word,” I reply, exasperation creeping into my voice. Dealing with her is exhausting, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders.

“I just hope you know how to handle Langley Media and that you’re nice to the people who work for me,” she continues, her tone bright and annoyingly optimistic. “Everything you’re getting has a purpose, so I hope you’re smart enough to know how to use it all. I’ll have Jane, my assistant, send you all the details about our living arrangements. The sooner we move in, the better. Make sure to send the papers to Jane—and add a note or maybe clause to your six-month living arrangement.”

“What clause?” I ask, confusion setting in.

“You’ll swear to stay at least two feet away from me at all times,” she says, her voice carrying a mischievous edge, like she’s daring me. “No touching me, and definitely no PDA.”

“What?” I say, caught completely off guard by her demand. I can practically see the smirk on her face through the phone.

“You heard me. Two feet. Every time you break that rule, you lose something from my inheritance,” she adds, sounding far too smug for her own good. “A kiss might cost you the company . . . actually, let’s add your assets to the deal, baby. Your finger goes inside my tight little cunt, and you’ll pay dearly for it.”

The thought of her tight cunt sends a surge of heat straight to my groin. Even over the phone, the effect she has on me is undeniable. I can already feel myself hardening just from her words, and I know this ridiculous challenge is going to be pure torture. How the hell am I supposed to stay two feet away from her when all I can think about is everything I want to do to her?

My mind races, imagining the things I’d usually do—how I’d pull her close, kiss her until she’s breathless, tease her until she’s trembling, and make her beg for more. The way her body responds to me, the way she melts under my touch, it’s all I can think about. And now she’s putting a price on it?

Her voice, teasing and confident, comes through the line, clearly enjoying the power she holds over me. But I can’t help the thrill that runs through me at the challenge. It’s going to be hell, but the reward . . . the reward will be worth every second of restraint.

“Two feet?” I repeat, my voice low, the frustration evident even through the phone. “You’re really going to make this difficult for me, aren’t you?”

She laughs, the sound light and teasing. “That’s the idea, baby. Let’s see how well you can control yourself.”

I lean back, gripping the phone tighter with one hand, while the other drifts down to the hard length straining against my jeans. I can’t help but palm myself, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure through me as I think about her, about everything I want to do to her.

“Oh, I can control myself,” I murmur, my voice low and laced with heat. “But without touching, you’ll be the one desperate for my cock, sweetheart. You’ll be imagining it, thick and hard, stretching your tight little cunt until you can’t take it anymore. ”

Her breath catches on the other end of the line, and I can practically hear her heartbeat quicken.

“Just think about it,” I continue, my tone dripping with filth as I grip myself tighter, the friction making it harder to stay composed. “How good it feels when my cock fills your mouth, the way you can barely take all of me, but you love trying, don’t you? How wet you get just from the thought of me fucking you, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until you’re begging me to let you come.”

I stroke myself through the fabric, the pleasure building as I imagine her lips around me, the way she moans when I thrust deep into her mouth. Her breathing changes, that subtle hitch telling me I’m getting to her.

“And when I finally do touch you, you’re going to be so wet, so ready, that you’ll be begging for more. You’ll be desperate to feel me inside you, to have me pound into you until you can’t think of anything else but how good it feels.”

I can hear her breathing become more erratic, and I know she’s as affected as I am, fighting to keep control. But I’ve already got her exactly where I want her.

“So, go ahead,” I add, my voice dark and tempting as I press harder against my cock, the need for her almost overwhelming. “Keep your distance. But every time you close your eyes, you’ll be thinking about my cock—how much you want it in your mouth, your cunt, how much you need it. And when you finally can’t take it anymore, you’ll come crawling back to me, begging for it.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, but I can hear her breathing—soft, uneven, telling me everything I need to know. My hand tightens around my cock, the pressure sending waves of pleasure through me, but I won’t let myself go. Not yet. The tension is almost unbearable, my body screaming for release, but I force myself to hold back, to savor this moment of control.

I’ll save that for later, when I’m alone in the shower, water pouring over me, imagining the way she’d moan my name, her voice echoing off the tiles as I fuck her harder, faster, until she’s begging me to let her come.

“Em,” I murmur into the phone, my voice thick with need, “you have no idea what you’re doing to me. I’m so fucking hard right now, thinking about the way I’d take you in the shower, your body slick and wet, begging for me to go deeper.”

There’s still silence on her end, but her breathing tells me everything I need to know. She’s feeling it too, that same desperate need that’s tearing me apart.

“But I won’t,” I continue, my voice low and rough. “You don’t deserve my cock, baby. Only good girls do, and you’ve been a bad girl. Bad girls don’t get to come. Bad girls get punished. If you think you’re punishing me by not letting me touch you, you’re wrong. You’ll want it, you’ll beg for it, but you’ll never have me again.”

The words hang heavy in the air, the tension between us palpable. I release my grip on my cock, the tension thrumming through my body as I force myself to pull back, to wait. The ache is unbearable, but the anticipation only makes it sweeter. I know that when the time comes, it’s going to be explosive.

“Keep dreaming, Romeo. I don’t need your cock—there are toys better suited for my needs,” she snaps back, her voice sharp. “Now, if that’s all, I have work to do.”

I chuckle, knowing she’s trying to sound indifferent, but her uneven breathing gives her away. I can almost picture her, fingers slipping between her legs as she tries to satisfy herself, probably thinking about what I just said. But I’ll let this one go—for now.

“I’ll have Jane send you an email with all the details. In fact, anything you have to say to me, say it to her. I’m heading back home,” she adds, casually brushing off my attempt to regain control.

“We haven’t finalized this agreement,” I protest, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “You have to sign.”

“That’s what e-signatures are for, Caleb. You can always send a courier to my office with the papers. I appreciate you agreeing. I’ll give you what you requested. I’m heading home since there’s a lot I have to do before moving to Grandma’s place,” she says with finality.

“I’ll have someone do an inventory of your property this Friday to make sure everything is included in the documents you have to sign,” I reply, determined to keep control. “And I’ll need the Bentley by then.”

“The Bentley?” she asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“Yep, as a sign of good faith,” I say, enjoying the upper hand.

“You want the Bentley ?” She laughs, the sound disbelieving. “How do you even know about the Bentley ?”

“It’s in your grandma’s will. She’s leaving it to you.”

“But you want it?” she asks, her tone shifting as if she’s ready to fight me for it.

“Yep,” I say, standing my ground.

She sighs, and I can almost see her shaking her head in defeat. “Are you sure? ”

“Yes. How old is it?” I ask, curious now, maybe the thing isn’t running anymore.

“Fairly new,” she admits. “Youngish . . . three years probably.”

“Who wouldn’t want a three-year-old Bentley?” I ask, surprised by her reluctance. She’s always been into luxury cars—why is she being so dense about this?

“Me, I wouldn’t want it,” she responds and I can see she’s using reverse psychology.

“If you’re trying to talk me out of it—” I start.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she interrupts.

“Then you’ll have it ready for me by Friday?”

“Why don’t you get your paperwork ready sooner than tomorrow if you can, and I’ll have the Bentley ready for you then,” she says, her voice calm and composed.

If she’s trying to use reverse psychology, she’s wasting her time. The Bentley is mine, and I won’t share it with her. Let’s see who has the last laugh.