Chapter 34 Trouble in Paradise
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
DAVINA
It was hard to believe I'd been married for four months—almost five.
I sat curled up on the couch in Dallas's living room, our living room, I had to keep reminding myself, laptop balanced on my knees, the outline for next week's podcast episode glowing on the screen.
Big Girl Panties had exploded since the viral episode with Dallas, our listener numbers tripling in ways that made my business brain very happy and my introverted soul very tired.
Which meant the pressure to deliver quality content had tripled too.
This week's topic: “Reclaiming Space, Why Taking Up Room Isn't a Crime.”
I'd been working on the intro for an hour, trying to find the right balance between vulnerability and humor.
The episode would tackle the way plus-size women were conditioned to shrink themselves, physically, emotionally, and professionally, and how knowing they deserved space in the world was important.
The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the house smelled like Dallas's cologne and the coffee I'd made an hour ago.
Ricky was sprawled across my feet like a tiny, snoring blanket. He'd worn himself out barking at a particularly threatening butterfly earlier and was now recovering.
The house was quiet without Dallas. He'd left for the gym two hours ago, pressing a kiss to my forehead and promising to bring back smoothies.
My phone buzzed.
Brooke: On my way! Traffic is a nightmare.
Dallas: Take your time. I'm still wrestling with the intro.
Brooke: Wrestling. Ha. Married to a wrestler. I see what you did there.
Dallas: That was entirely unintentional.
Brooke: Sure, it was. Be there in 15.
I smiled and set the phone aside. Brooke and I had a full day of podcast prep ahead, the episode outline to finalize, listener questions to sort through, and the fan meet-and-greet logistics for next month that had somehow become my personal organizational nightmare.
The doorbell rang.
I frowned. Brooke knew the door was open.
Ricky's head shot up, ears rotating like tiny satellite dishes, and he launched into his standard alarm sequence.
“ARF ARF ARF ARF ARF!”
“It's fine,” I told him, extracting my feet from beneath his warm body. “Probably just a delivery.”
He followed me to the door anyway, his barking having downgraded to suspicious grumbling.
I opened the door.
Sam stood on my porch like she'd stepped out of a corporate thriller; cream blazer sharp enough to cut glass, tablet clutched like a weapon, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
Her smile was the kind that preceded either very good news or really bad news.
With Sam, it was often difficult to tell.
“Sam.” I blinked. “Dallas isn't here. He's at the gym.”
“I know.” Her smile didn't waver. “I'm here to see you.”
Sam didn't make social calls. In the four months I'd known her, every appearance had come with an agenda attached.
“Oh.” I stepped back, pulling the door wider. “Okay. Come in.”
Ricky, apparently deciding this particular human was acceptable after a thorough sniff of her designer heels, abandoned his post and trotted back toward his bed with a huff. He circled three times before flopping down.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“That would be lovely.” Sam followed me into the kitchen.
“So.” I kept my voice casual as I moved to the coffee maker. “What brings you by?”
Sam settled onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, crossing her legs. She set her tablet on the counter, the screen dark but somehow ominous.
“I wanted to touch base,” she said. “Things have been going remarkably well.
The public perception of your marriage is excellent: the viral podcast moment, the arena incident, the pap shots of you two looking sickeningly in love.
The narrative has shifted completely. Dallas's reputation has never been stronger, and the dump them at twenty-three rumors… Gone.”
“That's... good?” I poured her coffee into one of Dallas's ridiculous oversized mugs.
Sam accepted it. “Very good. Which is why I think it's time to start introducing some trouble in paradise.”
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.
“I'm sorry, what?”
“Nothing dramatic.” Sam waved a hand as if she were discussing a vacation instead of my marriage.
“Just some subtle hints that all isn't perfect.
You attend an event alone, looking pensive.
Dallas is photographed without his ring at a gym, which is easy to explain away as he didn't want to damage it during training. We plant a few blind items, let the speculation build organically.”
I stood frozen at the coffee maker, my own mug halfway to my lips. The ceramic suddenly felt too heavy. Too cold.
“Why would we do that?”
Sam's perfectly groomed eyebrows rose. “To begin the separation narrative, of course.
We always knew this would have a shelf life.
The six-month mark was the minimum, but honestly, with how well everything's gone, we could probably start the transition now and have you both cleanly divorced by spring.”
The word divorced landed in my chest like a physical blow.
“Sam.” My voice came out strange like it belonged to someone else. “I think there's been some kind of miscommunication. Have you talked to Dallas lately? Because we decided, we agreed, that the divorce wasn't happening.”
Sam tilted her head, studying me. “I spoke with Dallas yesterday.
He's the one who asked me to start putting together the timeline for the separation.” She scrolled through something on her tablet.
“He even requested recommendations for divorce attorneys, good ones, he said, to make sure everything goes smoothly for both parties.”
The coffee mug slipped from my fingers.
It didn't shatter; it was too sturdy for that, but the noise it made hitting the counter was loud enough to startle Ricky from his bed. He came trotting into the kitchen, whining softly, pressing his body against my ankles.
I barely noticed.
“That's... that's not...” The words wouldn't form. My brain had stalled, gears grinding against information it couldn't process. “We decided... I thought we decided...”
I love you, he'd said.
Had I imagined that? Had I somehow constructed an entire alternate reality where my husband wanted to stay married to me?
We’d never really discussed it. We hadn’t said the words we wanted to stay married, but it was definitely presumed when he said he loved me.
Maybe it had only been presumed on my part.
“This is why a postnup should have been signed,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. Then louder: “Don't make this harder than it has to be, Davina.”
“Harder than…” I couldn't breathe. The kitchen felt too small, the walls pressing in. “Sam, our marriage stopped being fake months ago. I thought the plans to divorce were dissolved.”
Sam's expression shifted, pitying, almost, and it made my stomach drop.
“Here's what's going to happen,” she said, her tone shifting into the brisk efficiency of someone reading a battle plan.
“You'll be going to Paris alone. That's where we'll start the rumors of trouble in paradise.
Next time you're both seen together publicly, you'll be without your wedding rings. After that, we'll begin the social media separation. You’ll unfollow each other first, then remove photos, the usual steps.”
“Sam…”
“I'll handle everything.” She continued like I hadn't spoken, scrolling through her tablet with terrifying efficiency. “Including hiring a truck to start moving your things back to your apartment. I assumed you'd want the transition to be smooth.”
My old apartment. The one I'd moved out of months ago, leaving behind a life that felt like it belonged to someone else now.
“This is insane.” My voice shook. I hated that it shook. “I need to talk to Dallas because…”
“Because what?” Sam cut me off, her voice firm.
Final. “This was always the plan, Davina. Dallas has been very clear with me from the beginning about his intentions.” She set down her tablet with a soft click.
Her eyes met mine, and when she spoke again, her voice was gentle in a way that somehow made it worse.
“Dallas isn't the marrying type. He never has been. And honestly? You were never really his type.”
Her words burrowed into my chest and made a home there, settling in next to every insecurity I'd spent a lifetime building walls against.
“I mean,” she paused with a look of pity flashing across her face, “let’s be honest here. You’re fat, and he’s… not.”
A flicker of pain shot through my chest, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.
The doorbell rang again.
I jumped, startled back into my body, and realized my face was wet. When did I start crying?
“That's probably Brooke,” I managed, swiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “We have podcast stuff…”
“I should go.” Sam stood, gathering her tablet.
“I'll send you the timeline via email. The movers will coordinate directly with you about scheduling. And Davina?” She paused at the kitchen entrance, looking back at me.
“I really am sorry. This is the hardest part of what I do, cleaning up the mess.
But it's better to rip off the bandage, don't you think? Clean break. Move forward.”
She let herself out.
I stood in the kitchen and listened to the front door open and close. Heard Sam's voice, brief and professional, greeting whoever had arrived. Heard the click of heels on the walkway, then silence.
Then Brooke was there, her face pale, her eyes wide, her hands reaching for me.
“Davina? Davina, what happened? What's going on? Why are you crying?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but nothing came out.
Brooke pulled me into her arms, and I collapsed against her, the tears falling.
You were never really his type.
Her words echoed in my head, drowning out everything else.