Chapter 15
I wake up with a start, tangled in the guest room sheets.
My hair is channelling feral raccoon, and my breath?
Yeah. Lethal. Wilt-your-grandma’s-fern lethal.
Normally, this is when my brain hits play on the morning highlight reel of my personal hell; sister, betrayal, bed, yada yada; as if it’s some kind of sick trauma ASMR.
But not today. Today, my subconscious has gifted me something even more cringe: the sound of my own voice word-vomiting my entire trainwreck of a life to a man who is not only stupid hot, but also my would-be boss.
Caden Marx.
God help me.
Other women dream about hot CEOs saying tell me what you want. I apparently use that moment to emotionally strip down as if I’m on a live therapy podcast.
I groan, roll over, and bury my face in the pillow. It still smells faintly of lavender linen spray.
He had asked a simple question, “So tell me, what would it take to make you reconsider? ”
And I, in all my freshly devastated, wine-loose glory, said something so mortifying I wish the universe had just struck me down with a lightning bolt right then and there. I mean, what did it take? I could’ve said a raise. Or a signing bonus. Or free parking.
But no.
No.
I said, and I quote:
“I came home yesterday and found my husband screwing my nineteen-year-old sister on our bed- the same sister who’s always been the golden child, by the way.
And now I can’t take the job you’re offering because if I do, I’ll be making more money than my soon-to-be-ex, and that means I might owe him alimony, which is so disgusting it makes me physically itchy.
Also, if he finds out I got this job, his ego is small enough to drag out the divorce just to punish me.
So, I just need to be free. That’s all.”
I let the words hang there, expecting… I don’t know. Pity, maybe. Or polite corporate silence. Or a weird HR follow-up about emotional boundaries in workplace communication.
What I don’t expect is what he actually says.
“Idiot.”
Just that. Crisp, no hesitation. A simple fact.
Then :
“If I had a woman like you, I’d never give you a reason to leave.”
And there it was. The line. The one that hit me with the force of a slap and a kiss at the same time.
Better because- hello?
Worse because, seriously? Now? This was supposed to be my villain origin story, not the setup for a romantic subplot. I’m still legally married. I still have mascara crusted in my eyelashes and trauma clinging to my hair.
And yet.
My stomach flipped. My heart did something stupid and fluttery.
He had said it so easily too. As if I’m already worth fighting for. As if I’m not just the woman who got blindsided by her husband and her sister.
I should have shut it down last night. I should have. But instead, I just lay there, blinking at the ceiling and wondering what it would feel like to actually believe that. To be the woman a man never wants to lose.
God help me.
I think I just got a crush during a breakdown. Classic.
My phone starts buzzing and yanks me out of my existential spiral. Midlife crisis, party of one. Though can it technically be midlife if I’m only thirty? Whatever. Feels midlife. Feels crisis-y.
I grab the phone, check the screen. Not him, thank God. Just Lorna.
I swipe to answer, already bracing for her voice.
“Took you long enough to answer,” she barks.
“I just woke up,” I mumble, rubbing at one eye and squinting at the clock. Ten-oh-eight. Okay, maybe just was a stretch.
“It’s ten,” she says, as if I’ve slept through a summit meeting.
“Wow, thank you. Did you call just to tell me what time it is?”
“Save the attitude.” She’s not even pretending to be gentle. “I had my team file the divorce paperwork yesterday. And because I love you- and because you cry in a way that makes people deeply uncomfortable- I called in a favour with the clerk. Michael is getting served today.”
My mouth actually drops open. “Wait, today?”
“Mm-hmm. I hired a private courier. Very competent. Do you know where he is?”
I blink, then grin. “Okay, you’re a witch and I love you and I will never give you attitude again.”
She snorts. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. ”
“Hold on,” I say, already fumbling for the app. “I don’t think he’d go to his parents’. I still have that Air Tag in his car. Hold, please.”
I check. My stomach does a weird little backflip when the map loads.
“Got him. He’s at the Ashburn Hotel. Uptown.”
“Oof. Classy.”
I roll my eyes. “More cliché.”
“I’ll tell the courier,” she says. “Also- listen, I’m guessing he’s going to call once he gets the papers. Don’t answer. Let it go to voicemail or hit him with a text if you have to, but do not engage. Be elegant.”
I groan. “I hate being elegant.”
“You also hate letting him see you unravel. Pick your poison.”
Fair. Brutal. True.
I stare at the phone long after she hangs up, the knot in my stomach tightening, twisting into something dangerously close to vindication.
Elegant. Sure. I’ll try.
I get ready for lunch with the judge as if I’m suiting up for enemy territory.
Not in heels and armour though. This is psychological warfare, and the uniform is soft cashmere and perfectly broken-in jeans that hug just right.
I’m not dressing to seduce; I’m dressing to devastate. There’s a difference.
I scrub my skin like I can exfoliate regret. My shower is unnecessarily long and borderline spiritual, I even shave my knees. My hair gets the full blowout treatment, which hasn’t happened since pre-apocalypse. Makeup? Angelic. Slightly tragic.
And then I slide on the bracelet.
That bracelet.
The one the judge, Michael’s father, gifted me for our one-year wedding anniversary.
His idea of a “family heirloom,” even though it was definitely bought off a Fifth Avenue shelf.
It’s delicate, deceptively so, and heavier than it looks.
Guilt disguised as sentiment. A very sparkly "we see you as one of us now" curse. And yes, I put it on. Not because I’m sentimental.
Because subtle, strategic pettiness is my new love language.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me doesn’t look wrecked. She looks calibrated. Calm. Ready to smile politely while casually dropping a nuclear bomb in the middle of a white-tablecloth lunch.
And maybe, maybe if I look heartbroken enough, just raw and soft around the edges, he’ll feel something. The judge. Maybe he’ll get pissed, act like a real father. Not a judge. Not a calculated man in robes and retirement watches. But someone who’d actually throw a punch for me .
Which is insane, I know. He’s not my father. My actual father? Wouldn’t throw a punch if someone clocked me in the face. He’d just sigh dramatically and ask how I managed to invite chaos again. Like when I quit my job and they made it a referendum on their parenting. Classic.
Michael’s mom is no better. She writes books, not novels, God forbid anything entertaining.
No, she’s a licensed therapist with three degrees and zero maternal instincts.
Her whole career is built on understanding other people’s emotions while actively avoiding her own son’s.
She lives in L.A., runs a private practice, and sends him Christmas cards signed “Warmly.” I used to feel bad for him.
Now? Not so much. He turned out exactly like both of them. Distant. Self-serving. Brilliant at saying the right thing and doing the absolute wrong one.
But today isn’t about Michael. Not really. Today is about me. Me, and the judge, and the war I plan to fight with weaponized innocence and just the right amount of shimmer.
Let him take one look at me and feel ashamed.
Let him squirm.
Let him choose sides .