His name was Marcus. Married. Two kids. A house with a porch swing and a dog named Otis. Gina had met him at a gallery opening—he’d complimented her boots, she’d made fun of his tie, and by midnight they were sharing a cigarette in the alley behind the venue.
Vixen. That’s what he called her when he wanted to make her feel wild and untamed. But she knew the truth: a vixen is just a fox that hasn’t been caught yet.
But tonight, she let herself feel the sting of being second place—and wrote it down anyway.
At 11:17, her phone buzzed.