Chapter 47 - Stella
Stella
The house still smells faintly of cardboard and dust, even though every box from Virginia is unpacked. It’s been about two months since I found my husband balls deep in the PR rep, who just happened to be my worst enemy—but it feels like just yesterday.
Ansel is perched on the arm of the couch, which happens to be her favorite place to sit, and Blythe is curled into the corner. Both of them watch the fire crackle while I scroll through paint colors on my phone.
The quiet feels like a loaded gun, so I will do anything to keep my mind, like diving headfirst into Blythe’s nail studio.
There is a knock at the front door. Sharp. Relentless.
Ansel’s up first, peeking through the window. She groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Mac stands on the porch, one hand gripping Donovan’s arm like he’s trying to keep him from bolting. Donovan looks… smaller somehow. Or maybe that’s just my satisfaction warping the image.
Mac gives me an apologetic shrug. “I’m here so nobody ends up in the hospital.”
Ansel mutters something about shovels under her breath and stalks toward the kitchen. Blythe follows, pulling Mac with her. “We’ll keep the ref in our corner,” she says, her voice soft but laced with steel.
The door clicks shut. It’s just him and me now.
Donovan swallows hard. “Star—”
“Don’t.” My voice cuts the space clean. “Don’t call me that. You lost that privilege the second you decided she was worth more than the truth.”
“Tell me, Coach,” the words coming out in disgust, “did you think of me while you fucked her?” Hurt flashes across his face; he stammers out, “What, no! Star, I am sorry.”
He tries again, but I step closer, slow, deliberate. “When you were inside me,” I say, tasting the bitterness on my own tongue, “did you think about her?”
His eyes widen, but I don’t give him the chance to answer.
“Did you picture her mouth when I was wrapped around your cock? Was her name in your head when I told you I loved you? Tell me, Donovan—did you close your eyes and pretend I was Elaine?”
He looks like I’ve hit him, but it’s not enough. I want him gutted.
“You didn’t just cheat on me, Donovan. You broke every vow you ever made—every word, every promise, every prayer you whispered while you worshiped my naked body.
You hollowed me out and called it love. You let me believe I was yours while you were giving pieces of yourself to her like they were nothing.
Our marriage unraveled in the lies you told, one silk thread at a time, until I was standing in the ruins wearing nothing but your betrayal.
And I hope those broken vows haunt you until your last breath, because I’m done letting them haunt me. ”
I step back, the taste of my own venom still sharp in my mouth. “Now get out of my house.”
He reaches for me, fingers closing around my arm. “Wait, Stella—stop being so fucking stubborn. Let’s just talk this through. We can get through this!”
My eyes drop to his grip. I peel his hand off me like it’s a contaminant. “Don’t put your fucking hands on me.”
The kitchen door bangs open. Ansel’s got Cormac by the waist, holding him back, but his eyes are pure rage.
I take a breath, my voice steady but cold. “Donovan, this is me being stubborn. This is me being broken, crushed, and furious. This is the reaction of a scorned wife. So no, I won’t talk to you. And no, we’re not working through this.”
I pick up the manila envelope on the table—the one that isn’t full of lies or buried with my grandfather. The one that will set me free. “Here are the divorce papers. Now leave.”
He stares at them like the envelope just slapped him. “Come on, Stella, don’t be such a bitch. Just talk to me—”
Before the sentence can finish, there’s a blur of movement, and Cormac’s fist connects with Donovan’s jaw. The sound is a wet crack. “You might be my best friend, bro, but don’t ever put your hands on a lady, and don’t fucking talk to one like that.”
Donovan stumbles toward the door. Ansel is already at Cormac’s side, checking his knuckles.
For a moment, the room is still. I exhale, tension leaving in a slow leak. Cormac glances at me. “You know I’m not picking sides. But I’m not letting anyone treat you like that.”
I nod at Cormac, the faintest hum of gratitude under the anger still thrumming in my chest. “Don’t thank me,” he says.
“Just… don’t let him back in here.” His gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching, the kind of look that promises he’ll keep watch whether I ask or not.
Ansel mutters something about getting ice for his knuckles and steers him toward the kitchen.
Blythe steps in close, pulling me into a hug. “I know you have a lot going on, Stell, but tell me you spoke with Preston about the divorce before filing papers?”
I blink, caught off guard. “No. I just filed. I don’t want to be married to that piece of shit anymore.” The words come out sharp, final.
Blythe’s expression shifts—worry written across her face. “Okay… but did you have him sign a prenup?”
She steps back slightly, as if bracing for my reaction.
And it clicks. Hard. “Fuck.” My voice is a low growl. “He can take half my family estate.”
Ansel reappears, leaning against the doorframe with the ice bucket in hand. “Half of everything,” she says, the words slow and deliberate.
I sink onto the couch, heat pooling low in my chest. “Then I guess we make sure that what he walks away with is worth less than nothing.”
Ansel arches a brow. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not handing him a damn thing without a fight.
” My voice is low, controlled. “I’m going to pull every receipt, every text, every late-night ‘away game’ that wasn’t—credit card charges, mileage logs, anything that ties him to this affair.
I’ll cross-reference everything with the public records from his teams, travel schedules, you name it.
When I’m done, I’ll make sure it lands on every high school and collegiate athletic director’s desk. He’ll never coach again.”
Ansel leans back, watching me with a mix of awe and wariness. “That’s… a lot of digging.”
“I’m good at digging,” I say flatly. “And when I’m finished, his career will be ash, and the judge will know exactly why I filed for divorce.”
Blythe’s brows lift, but she doesn’t interrupt. Ansel just gives a slow, vicious smile.
For a moment, it’s quiet—too quiet. My pulse still hammers in my ears.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
“For fucks sake,” I scream out as I slam the door open.
Elaine stands on my porch, her hands twisting together like she hasn’t decided if she’s here to apologize or plead her case. There’s no smugness this time. No smirk. Just something in her eyes that I cannot name.
I lean against the doorframe, folding my arms. “You have some nerve showing up here.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. She swallows hard. “I didn’t come to fight.” I almost slam the door in her face, but that flicker in her gaze catches me, just enough to make me pause.
“Two minutes,” I tell her. “And don’t waste them.”
“I quit PR for the team,” she says finally, voice low, almost testing the words.
I huff out a laugh that’s anything but amused. “Awesome. Wow. That just makes my day. Is that really why you showed up—to tell me you’re not the team’s PR bimbo?”
Her shoulders pull tight, but she doesn’t look away. “He didn’t tell me he was married, Stella. Hell, he never wore a ring. Nothing on social media showed you two together. Not a single picture.”
“Our wedding photos were plastered all over my Instagram,” I bite back.
“Were they? I wouldn’t know. You had me blocked,” she fires without hesitation.
“Because you fucking hate me,” I snap, heat licking the edges of my voice.
Her chin lifts, her eyes glassy but steady.
“I don’t hate you, Stella. Honestly, I never did.
” She swallows, and for a split second, I see the guilt flicker there.
“I was a kid when my dad died. Your family was the one who made his casket and planned his funeral. My mom always said it was your dad’s fault he was gone.
I didn’t know where to put the grief, so I put it on you.
I told myself I hated you because it was easier than admitting I was just jealous you still had yours. ”
I take a step closer, my voice a low slice. “Socials or not, he has my last name. And you didn’t know?”
Her jaw works before she answers with a slight shrug. “He must’ve never changed it with the team. No one ever used it; he was Coach D’Angelo.”
For a second, the fight drains out of me—replaced by something colder, heavier. The realization that every lie Donovan told didn’t just unravel me. It stitched her into the wreckage, too.
I fold my arms, a wall between us. She’s still in my kitchen, stealing my air, my space—the same way she stole my husband.
My gaze drags over her, slow and deliberate.
Perfect hair that probably took an hour to tame.
Skin that’s never seen a day of real work under the sun.
A blouse that pretends to be effortless when every detail is calculated.
She’s polished in that PR-girl way, like she could spin a funeral into a photo op.
“You’ve got one minute left,” I say, my voice flat.
She doesn’t flinch. “I’m not here to make excuses.
I just… I needed you to hear the truth. You think I went looking for him to hurt you, but I didn’t.
Work put us in the same place, and I didn’t see it coming.
He was the one who crossed the line first. He was the one who made me believe I could trust him. ”
My laugh is sharp, humorless. “Poor you.”
Elaine’s mouth tightens. “I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking you to stop looking at me like I’m the one who tore you apart. He had your name. Your vows. Your life. And he still came to me.”
The words are acid, and they burn going down because they’re true.