Chapter 14
I get home and immediately regret it.
The second the door clicks shut behind me, the silence rushes in, it’s too loud, too sharp. Like the walls are waiting to ask, so, how does it feel to be humiliated at the molecular level?
Answer: It feels like acid. It feels like glass in my throat. It feels like fuck this house .
I toe off my shoes and make it five steps before I freeze in the middle of the living room, eyes locked on the couch. The stupid beige sectional we picked together because it “looked neutral and adult.” I want to set it on fire.
Did he screw her here?
Did she sit on my cushions, on my throw blanket, legs tucked under her like some rom-com mistress cliché, sipping wine from my favourite glass?
Of course she did. Of course he did.
I let out a bark of laughter, she can’t even legally drink yet.
I don’t sit. Can’t sit. My body won’t let me.
Instead, I march into the kitchen like it’s a war path, grab the biggest wine glass we own; which, let’s be real, is basically a crystal bucket on a stem and pour until the bottle makes that little glug-glug sound of surrender.
“One glass,” I mutter. “This is one glass.”
I take it and retreat to the guest room. My safe zone. My new sad corner. My emotional bomb shelter. Honestly, it smells like lavender and betrayal in here.
I shut the door, lean back against it, and just breathe for a second. Then immediately start spiralling.
Lorna said not to touch the house. Not yet. Don’t say a word about selling, Leni, or they’ll assume it’s shared property and hand him half just for being alive and having a penis.
Which is unfair. I’m the one with blood in the grout. I’m the one who’ll have to sage the memory of his sweat out of the drywall.
But she’s right. If I stay, if I play my part, if I keep smiling like this home is my castle and not my crime scene, the judge is more likely to let me keep it.
Because it’s mine . It has to be.
It’s not like I can go live with my parents. That ship sailed, sank, and got picked apart by emotional barnacles years ago.
This is what I’m down to now.
No marriage .
No dignity.
No couch I can sit on without visualizing a porno I didn’t consent to.
Just me. A bottle of cabernet. A well-lit vendetta.
And yeah. I want to hurt him. I want him to feel small. Powerless. Poor. I want his bank account to tremble when he hears my name. Because if there’s one thing Michael “Call Me Mike” Miller actually cares about, it’s money.
That, and impressing his father.
Which is why I’m seeing the Judge tomorrow. Yes, the Judge. Not “my father-in-law.” That man might treat me like a daughter but he has no warmth or humanity, especially when it comes to his son.
Even his wife calls him that. “The Judge.” Probably because he named his son after himself but didn’t bother with a Junior. Now we have two Michael Millers in this godforsaken family tree. One bought us this house, the other fucked my sister in it.
God, I hate this house.
I sink onto the edge of the guest bed, wine glass gripped like a lifeline
The mattress squeaks under my weight and Netflix pings from the TV, cheerful and oblivious. “New releases for you!” it chirps, like it’s not suggesting I watch my way through other people’s trainwrecks to avoid my own.
I can’t. I’m too angry for fake dating. Too bitter for mid-budget true crime. I want blood or silence. No in-between.
And it’s not like I have work to distract me yet. May I won’t for a while.
A whole lifetime of being alone with my brain and the echo of his voice in my shower tiles. Amazing.
I pick up my phone, mostly to stop myself from throwing it at the wall. Swipe up. Inbox. Pinterest boards I don’t remember following. A sale on bamboo sheets. One too many “Did you forget something in your cart?” emails. I forgot everything , actually. Like how to trust anyone.
Then- one email catches my eye.
Subject: Your Offer Letter - Marx Corp
Oh. Right.
That thing where I’m supposed to start my shiny new job with a corner office and a CEO who actually reads contracts before signing them.
Leave it to me to get offered the best job of my life and immediately pick vengeance over it.
I should be thrilled. I should be framing this contract, or at least printing it like an adult with a filing system.
But instead, I’m spiralling into guest room purgatory with a wine gut and a broken heart.
The thing is, the job is for my savings account. My sensible, well-planned, “I could retire by forty if I stay boring” future.
But revenge?
Revenge is for the soul.
And right now, my soul is thirsty.
I scroll through the email. Benefits, salary, start date-Monday. Of course. I stare at the signature line. Ugh.
I should feel guilty but I don’t.
Maybe a little.
My expenses have been low lately. Apart from supporting my parents, I pay taxes, buy groceries. My car runs. That’s about it.
No lavish trips. No spontaneous shopping sprees. No dog.
That dream- the one where I finally get a dog, name her something absurd like Lady Wigglebottom, and feed her bits of croissant while we sit in the park, I’ve had that since I was a kid.
Mike was allergic. Of course he was. Allergic to joy, apparently.
But he’s not here anymore, is he ?
Maybe it’s time.
First, though: I have to say no. To the job. To the structure. To the grown-up version of myself that might’ve crawled out of this gracefully.
I tap the CEO’s email, draft a reply with hands that are shaking a little.
Subject: Re: Offer Letter
Thank you so much for the opportunity. Unfortunately, due to an urgent family responsibility, I won’t be able to accept the position at this time. Wishing you and the team continued success. Warmly, Leana Scott
Simple. Direct. Devastating.
I hover for a second. Then hit send.
And just like that, I’ve turned down my dream job in a guest room I don’t even like, in a house I can’t stand, for a man I want to destroy.
Honestly, I deserve a dog just for that.
The call comes barely five seconds after I hit send.
Unknown number.
I stare at it for a second because I have a feeling I know who’s on the other side of this call.
I answer, because I hate myself just enough. “Hello? ”
“Leana Scott?”
His voice is... rich. Unfairly attractive. Low and smooth with just a hint of teasing, like expensive whiskey in a crystal glass I would one hundred percent spill down my shirt.
“Yes?” I say, suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra and am holding my wine like its holy water.
“This is Caden Marx.”
And just like that, my organs attempt a synchronized swan dive out of my body.
He doesn’t even say the Caden Marx, like the new CEO of Marx Corp, the guy I said ‘looked like a kid’, the man I almost worked for, before I decided, in a full mental spiral, to bail on the job and lean all the way into petty divorce warfare.
“I- uh.” My brain bluescreens. “Hi.”
I just saw your email,” he says, voice light, laced with curiosity. “So, tell me, why the sudden no?”
Of course. Of course, he’s charming and direct.
I blink at the wall like it might help me form a coherent thought.
“I’m sorry,” I say, which is ridiculous because I’m not. I’m exhausted. I’m grieving. I’m maybe a little tipsy. “It’s just… personal stuff. ”
“Family responsibility,” he repeats, like he’s rolling the words around on his tongue. “Sounds serious.”
“It’s a little soap opera meets midlife crisis, but yes. Serious.”
He laughs. Actually laughs . Like I’m funny, like I’m not a woman whose marriage just imploded in a pile of betrayal and bad decisions. Like I’m not currently spiralling into a second act I didn’t audition for. And yet, somehow, his laugh doesn’t feel mocking, it’s warm. Smooth.
And damn it, I want to stay on the line with him.
“I don’t normally chase after candidates,” he says, voice all casual authority, guess he’s not the kind of man who gets told no very often. CEOs don’t chase. They stalk. Elegantly. In tailored suits and designer cologne.
“But I liked your style,” he adds, and something about the way he says it makes my spine straighten. “It was… direct. Refreshing.”
Right. Because nothing screams refreshing like plotting murder in an elevator. But okay, fine. I’ll take the compliment.
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m gripping the phone with both hands. “I’m nothing if not blunt these days.”
“Well,” he says, like he’s smiling. I can hear it. “Blunt is exactly what I need. My father stepped down because he knew it was time for a change, to clean house; modernize, make the company less of a boys’ club. Which means I need someone smart, tough, and unafraid to piss people off.”
I blink. That’s… oddly flattering. And uncomfortably accurate.
“So basically, you need a feminist with a legal degree and no time for bullshit.”
“Exactly,” he says. “So, tell me- what would it take to make you reconsider?”
Oh god. Do not say wine and a foot rub. Do not say wine and a foot rub .