Chapter One
Selena
It is nine p.m. on a Friday night. By Iowa standards, the world is tucking itself in, but here in New York City, the evening has barely cleared its throat.
I arrived in the Big Apple exactly seventy-eight hours ago via an Amtrak journey that finally spit me out at Penn Station this morning.
I brought two large suitcases, a backpack, and a makeup bag.
The rest of my life—the furniture, the memories, the future—is currently in the custody of my ex-almost-husband.
Landon Emile Drake is now the proud owner of last year's boho-chic Pottery Barn collection, including the overstuffed couch, the farmhouse dining table, and the matching chairs.
They were a pre-wedding gift from my sister, Celeste, who lives back in our hometown with her three beautiful children and a "mountain man" she calls Hubby.
No one was more excited to see me married than Celeste.
She described marriage with such breathless reverence that I felt guilty for struggling to wait for the big day.
I wanted to match her energy; I really wanted to be the girl who wanted that life.
It was my understanding that most men considered marriage an unfortunate necessity, a trap to be avoided until the last possible second.
My fiancé, Landon, was the exception. He was obsessed with locking me down.
He didn’t care about the color of the floral arrangements or how many tiers were on the cake.
All he wanted was to make me Mrs. Selena Leanne Drake.
In fact, three mornings ago—just before our wedding—that’s exactly how he addressed me.
“Morning, Mrs. Selena Leanne Drake. Get out of bed, sleepyhead.” He nuzzled my neck, his breath warm and familiar against my skin. “Are you ready for the big day?”
“Can I wear pajamas?” I offered a playful smile, burying my face in the pillow. I was exhausted and surprisingly nervous, secretly wishing I could just stay in bed and skip to the part where we were old and settled.
The idea of a wedding had been thrilling at first, but once the mothers and sisters mobilized, the event mutated.
Everyone had a demand. I had to revise the guest list three times because my soon-to-be mother-in-law couldn't decide which bridge friends she currently hated. The florist lost the order; the caterer my sister insisted upon couldn’t guarantee the kitchen was gluten-free.
It became a time-sucking, soul-crushing endeavor.
By the end, I would have happily had the marriage license emailed to me so I could sign it from the comfort of my duvet.
“Nope. I want to see you in the dress,” Landon said, pulling the covers back. “By this time tomorrow morning, we’ll be waking up as husband and wife.”
He leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, reassuring kiss that made me believe the stress was worth it. He was worth it—or so I told myself.
We had planned a five o’clock ceremony at a local bee farm.
The venue was his sister's idea, but I agreed because it was genuinely beautiful—deep in the country, with an upscale barn for the reception and a grassy plot overlooking the foothills for our vows. Everyone would get a jar of artisanal honey. I’d even leaned into a quirky bee theme, complete with sunflowers and marzipan bees bedazzled with edible glitter on a baby blue cake. It was weird, but I thought it was us.
We met in college. He was a mechanical engineer; I was a budding lawyer.
We had zero common interests, but we shared a love for the absurd.
Our meet-cute involved me throwing up on his Air Force Ones at a frat party.
He was a gentleman about it, letting me sleep off the cheap vodka in his room while he took the floor.
Back then, I was a shy, awkward freshman—too tall for my confidence level and far too thin. College eventually filled me out, and thanks to some fortunate genetics, I realized somewhere around junior year that I was actually a knockout.
Landon just grew taller. Lanky, with brown hair that curled uncontrollably at the tips, he left an impression.
He had a long, birdlike nose, a chiseled jaw, and muddy brown eyes that were sensitive and thoughtful.
He wasn't the most handsome man in the world, but he was definitely the most attentive.
My own father had been a dashing man, handsome and alluring, but he passed away when I was young, leaving me with only a few photographs that proved I had his eyes.
My stepfather, Michael, is a thick, potbellied man with a booming voice.
The primary difference between my elegant late father and my brutish stepfather is about a million dollars—a net worth Michael constantly brags about.
He squirrels his money away so that my mother, sister, and I will likely never see a penny.
My mother, on the other hand, was the town beauty queen.
She invested her pageant winnings into a nest egg that paid for our college.
She was generous, though I would never say we were rich.
Even in her late fifties, she is stunning.
I never understood why she married Michael, except perhaps for the stability. He was safe.
Maybe that’s why I latched onto Landon. He was my stable guy.
He texted to make sure I got home safe after late classes; he brought me chicken soup when I was sick; he planned sensible, all-inclusive vacations so we could afford to get away without worry.
Landon Emile Drake was one hell of a sensible choice.
“Do you ever wonder,” my sister asked me once, trying to be kind, “why he’s so good to you?”
At first, I bristled. It felt like an accusation, as if I didn’t deserve a good man. “He’s a nice guy, and I’m nice, too,” I defended.
“I know how great you are, Selena. But let’s be real—you’re a ten. He’s a six on a good day. He’s holding onto the best thing that ever happened to him with both hands.”
It was the only time she ever said it, but the thought had crossed my mind. I was prom queen material; he was the guy with the pocket protector. But I told myself I liked "ugly-chic." Looks didn't matter compared to devotion. I was proud of myself for not being shallow.
Plus, he was surprisingly talented in bed. Apart from a guy named Danny (whose last name I couldn’t remember) fingering me at prom, I’d only ever been with Landon. It was good. I orgasmed, he had a job, and he looked decent in a suit. I didn't need to ask for more than that, right?
Then came the wedding.
I stood in the holding area of the barn, clutching my bouquet of silk flowers and fuzzy bees. Landon was already at the altar in his baby blue tuxedo. My life was seconds away from changing forever.
The ambient music faded. It was time.
Suddenly, the barn door flew open. A woman rushed in wearing a tacky silver halter dress, tears streaming down her face. Her hair was a lopsided mess, pins hanging on for dear life. She looked like she’d either been hit by a car or recently... occupied.
It turned out to be the latter.
“You fucking cunt,” she hissed.
That certainly wasn’t something I expected to hear moments before walking down the aisle.
“Excuse me?” I crinkled my nose, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs.
“He’s mine. You might be marrying him, but you’ll never have him.”
“Are you talking about Landon?”
“My Landon.” She whipped out her phone and shoved the screen in my face.
I found myself staring at a video. It was timestamped thirty minutes ago. There was Landon, in his blue wedding tuxedo, cock out and ready to go.
“We have to hurry,” he grunted on screen, the camera catching him at a chaotic angle.
He clearly didn't know he was being filmed. He hiked up the woman's silver dress—too short for a wedding, I noted irrelevantly—and plowed into her. No foreplay, no hesitation. Just straight to business, causing the woman in the video to grunt his name.
I almost threw up on my white dress.
The violinist outside struck up the Wedding March.
I looked at the woman. She was trembling, waiting for me to scream or cry.
“If he cheats on me on our wedding day,” I said, my voice eerily calm, “he’ll cheat on you, too.”
I turned and walked out the back exit.
I didn't run. I walked, completely numb, snatching my purse from the animal stall we’d used for storage. I walked down the long gravel driveway, dust coating my heels. With shaking hands, I called an Uber.
Alfonso picked me up a mile from the farm.
He didn't ask why a bride was hiking alone on a country road; he just drove me to the apartment I no longer shared with Landon.
He waited with the meter running while I stuffed my life into two suitcases and a backpack.
Instead of the airport—where my mother would surely send the police to drag me back—I had him drive me to the train station.
I boarded the first train heading east. I sent a single text to my sister:
I'm alive. Landon cheated. Ask the lady in the silver halter dress for the video of him fucking her in his tuxedo. I'm never coming back to Iowa. Tell him not to call. PS: I love you.
Her reply was instantaneous: Oh my God, you’re alright!!!!!! Everyone is so worried. I HATE HIM. I’m going to kill him. Be safe. Tell me where you are.
I typed back: I'm not going to tell you where I am in case he tortures you. :-) But I will text you when I get there.
She sent a sad face emoji.
I threw my phone into a trash can at the station. Landon had my location on Life360, and paranoia was my new best friend. I bought a burner phone at a kiosk and a ticket to New York City. Landon had always refused to visit New York. He called it "soulless" and "trashy."
It sounded like the perfect place to disappear.
I texted my sister again from the new number once I was safely on the train. Her response came through somewhere near Ohio:
NYC?? Don’t get murdered!! Oh, just thought you should know Michael broke Landon’s nose. Guess dear ol’ stepdad does love us. Landon is fucked…that floozy showed the whole wedding party the video. Hope that makes you smile.
It didn't make me smile. I was too numb to feel anything.
Now, three days later, I’m standing in a Brooklyn sublet.
I secured it through a desperate scouring of Craigslist, burning through a terrifying chunk of my honeymoon fund to pay cash upfront.
The universe has a perverse sense of humor—the previous tenant is moving out because she’s moving in with her fiancé.
The apartment is tiny. Truly shoebox-sized. But it’s clean enough.
I stash my suitcases and stand in the center of the room, unsure of what to do. I’ve never lived alone. I am a single woman in the city that never sleeps, where, according to Law & Order, someone is murdered every fifteen minutes. I peek out the window, half-expecting carnage.
The street below is busy, loud, and indifferent. No one is actively bleeding.
For the first time in seventy-eight hours, I breathe. I decide to explore.