My Seven Cursed Exes by Nina Soelian
My Seven Cursed Exes
Description
Scarlett Maine was cursed by a witch, and now every ex she has ever had has turned into an object. And any new man she meets will join the collection the moment things get interesting. The catch is that sleeping with each object is the only way to bring the man back. Breaking the curse entirely requires more: collect all seven, do what needs to be done with each one, then gather every last ex in the same room. She has three in her carry-on and four cities on her list. And somewhere between the logistics and the humiliation, she's starting to wonder if the witch was wrong - or if she was.
Chapter 1
Jul 31, 2026
Scarlett POV
What the fuck?!
Why is there a fucking toothbrush inside of me?
Thirty seconds ago, Derek was on top of me. Hips moving, breath against my neck, his hands pinning mine above my head. And then mid-thrust, mid-moan, mid-everything… poof, gone.
Just weight vanishing, skin replaced by something hard and plastic and lodged.
And now it's there, bristles and all. In a place where no dental hygiene product has any business being. Inside of me. Hell!
I scramble off the sheets so fast my knees hit the carpet. One hand grips the mattress edge, the other pulls out a blue-handled toothbrush from between my thighs. I hold it at arm's length and stare at it.
"Derek?" My voice comes out like someone stepped on my throat, but the apartment around me is dead quiet. "Derek! If this is a magic trick or some fetish you forgot to mention, you need to come out and explain yourself, you jerk!"
But he’s nowhere to be found.
Bedroom door is closed. Bathroom is dark and empty. The window's shut, and it's the seventh floor. So unless the man rappelled down mid-thrust, he didn't leave through there.
"Scarlett?" I hear suddenly too close to me. "Scarlett, what the fuck is happening? Why can't I move? Why is everything… blue?"
Then the toothbrush vibrates in my hand like a heartbeat and I scream, throwing it across the room. It bounces off the dresser, hits a cologne bottle, and lands bristle-down on the carpet.
My back hits the wall, pulse hammering behind my eyes.
Derek's voice is coming out of a toothbrush on the floor. And I'm standing naked in his bedroom, trying to decide if I've lost my damn mind or if the universe has just gone fully off-script.
Congratulations, Scarlett.
You've either gone mad or you've officially fucked a man into a cleaning product.
"Are you… no." I approach the toothbrush cautiously, crouch down and pick it up with two fingers. Hold it away from my body like it might bite. "No, that's… Derek, where are you? This isn't funny. Come out."
I check under the bed. Behind the curtain. Yank open the closet.
Nothing.
Just his shirts in a neat row and the toothbrush in my hand, still warm, still talking. "Scarlett, I'm right HERE!"
"You can't be a toothbrush! People don't turn into toothbrushes, you idiot!" My voice is climbing and I catch my reflection in the window — naked woman arguing with a piece of plastic. I've lost it. Actually, clinically lost it. "Is there a speaker in this thing or what?"
"I'm not hiding! I can't see properly, everything is—"
"Blue. Yeah, I heard that." I stare at the toothbrush and turn it over like the underside might have instructions. "Blue handle. Frayed bristles. You're a toothbrush, Derek."
"That's not funny."
"Do I sound like I'm laughing?" My jaw is clenched so hard my teeth ache. "You were inside me the normal way, and then you were inside me the not-normal way, and I didn't notice the switch for a solid two seconds. So trust me, nobody here is having fun."
"I can't be a toothbrush! I'm six foot two! I have shoulders!"
"You had shoulders." I sit on the carpet, cross-legged, holding a talking toothbrush in my lap like the world's worst bedtime story. "Now you have bristles."
Three sharp knocks at the door. Hard and angry, the kind that don't ask if you're home — they already know.
I grab Derek's shirt off the floor, throw it on. Mid-thigh. I shove the toothbrush into the pocket.
"Hey! Don't just shove me in a—"
"Shut up." I smooth the shirt down, run a hand through my hair like that's going to fix anything, and open the door.
The woman in the hallway is about thirty-five. Dark hair, camel coat, the expression of someone reviewing a tax return she knows is fraudulent.
"You're Scarlett," she says.
"Who's asking?"
The toothbrush twitches in my pocket. "Wait," Derek whispers. "I know that voice."
"Agata Jones." A pause that could cut glass. "Derek's wife."
My stomach drops through the floor. Wife. Derek has a gym membership and mismatched socks and an ex in Portland he's "totally over." Derek does not have a wife.
Six exes before him, each one a masterclass in creative disappointment. And Derek — Derek was the one I didn't double-check. The one who cooked, who remembered my hairdresser's name.
Should've double-checked. Should've fucking double-checked, because the last decent man on my list just turned out to be the biggest asshole of all.
She pushes past me into the apartment. Not walks — pushes. Surveys the wine glasses, my dress on the couch, the clothing trail to the bedroom. Her face is rigid with the kind of fury that's gone past shouting into something colder.
"I've known for weeks. About you." She whips around, eyes burning. "Where is he?"
My fingers curl around the toothbrush in the pocket. In my pocket. He's a toothbrush. If I say that sentence out loud, I need to be institutionalized.
"He's already turned, hasn't he." She holds out her hand, palm up.
I pull it out. Hold it between us. Derek is dead silent for once — either terrified or finally smart enough to read the room.
Agata looks at it the way you look at something you scraped off your shoe. "A toothbrush. Disposable. Something you use and throw away." She looks at me with pure venom. "Sound like anyone you know?"
The toothbrush says nothing. First wise decision he's made since I met him.
"You think you're the first?" Agata's voice shakes — not with tears, with rage. "You're not. You're the fourth. And I'm done crying about it."
She steps closer, one finger pointed at my chest. "So here's what's going to happen. Every man you've ever been with — every single one — is an object now. Cursed. By me."
My spine locks. "What do you mean, every man?" My hand grips the counter behind me.
"All of them. Shaped by whatever made them terrible." She's not counting on her fingers anymore — she's advancing. "And you're going to find them. Every single one. And you're going to deal with what you did to them and what they did to you."
"They're objects." My voice cracks on the last word. I take a step back, hip bumping the kitchen counter.
"Good. Maybe you'll finally learn something when you can hold the problem in your hands." Her lips peel back in something that isn't a smile. "You'll learn not to touch other people's men."
"I didn't know he was married!" My nails dig into my palms.
"You didn't bother to check." She grabs the toothbrush from my hand — snatches it, fast, her fingers closing around the handle before I can react. "You never bother to check. You just take what's in front of you and move on to the next one."
"You can't curse someone for—"
"I already did." She shoves the toothbrush into her coat pocket. "And every new man you meet will turn too. Until you go back through every single one of them and deal with it."
My throat works around the only question that matters. "How do I break it?"
"You'll figure it out." She's already at the door. "Or you won't. I don't really care which." She turns back, eyes sweeping the apartment one last time. "Gather your things and get out. This is still my home."
The door clicks shut. I stand in the hallway outside Derek's apartment. Dress balled up under my arm, shoes in one hand, his shirt still on my body. The fluorescent light buzzes like it's judging me.
Seven men. Seven objects. Scattered across the planet, because I used to be a flight attendant with the romantic discipline of a pinball machine.
I press my palms against my eyes until white sparks bloom. Pull on my dress, leave his shirt on the doormat, and walk to the elevator.
Seven objects. Zero instructions. And not a single clue where to start.
My Seven Cursed Exes
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