CHAPTER ONE
BLAIRE
Colt: When is this little tantrum going to end, Blaire? It's been months. Time to come home.
Mom: Honey, Colt was in tears at dinner last night. He's really trying. You're breaking his heart. You're breaking all of our hearts.
Dad: Sweetheart, you can't avoid everyone's calls forever. This divorce you're insisting on affects all of us. Colt is such a good man. Just come home and let's have dinner and talk this through like adults.
I set my phone face down on my desk and stare at the ceiling of my office for a moment before I can trust myself to keep working.
Two weeks. The texts have been ramping up for two weeks, ever since the divorce went public.
What they don't know — what my parents are just now finding out — is that I filed the papers months ago.
I've been quietly, carefully building the exit for almost a year, making sure everything was in place before the world found out, before Colt found out exactly how serious I was.
The world found out two weeks ago.
My parents found out two weeks ago.
And now my mother is texting me about the tears of the man who put me in a hospital, like I haven’t told them repeatedly what he puts me through. But other than my parents, who refuse to believe me, nobody else knows about that part. I was very careful to make sure of that.
The public narrative is already written, and I know my role in it. I'll forever be the villain who walked away from NFL Hall of Famer Colton Monroe. The woman who had everything and threw it away.
His side has been telling that story since before the ink dried on the filing, and it's working, which I knew it would, which is why I built my exit so quietly. It’s also why I'm still not entirely sure I've built it well enough.
My office door opens, and Camille leans in with two coffees and the expression she wears when she knows I'm going to need help to hold it together.
"You ready?" she asks.
"As I'll ever be, I guess." I take the coffee.
She's asking about the interview. Colt sat down with a sports network yesterday, and every outlet in Houston has been running the clip on a loop since six this morning.
Networks have been clamoring to get to him since the divorce went public, all of them wanting his side of the story, and Colt has never once in his life turned down an audience.
Camille places her hand over mine and gives it a soft squeeze. Then she takes the remote and presses play.
Good morning Houston. I'm Lyle and this is my co-host, Marissa. We're here today with NFL Hall of Famer Colton Monroe.
Thanks for having me. It's great to meet you both in person.
He looks good. He always looks good on camera — that's always been part of the problem.
Easy smile, broad shoulders, the particular warmth he performs for strangers that the people closest to him never see.
He's wearing the navy blazer I bought him for his induction ceremony, and I wonder if that was deliberate. I decide it was.
Colton, we appreciate you sitting down with us, given everything you're going through right now.
He exhales slowly, drops his eyes for just a beat, and looks back up with the expression of a man carrying something heavy with tremendous grace.
I appreciate the space to talk about it. It's been a difficult time.
I take a long sip of coffee.
Camille's hand tightens over mine.
Can you tell us a little about what the last few months have looked like for you?
You know, Marissa, I've spent a lot of time trying to understand what happened.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
The posture of a man being ‘honest’. Blaire and I were high school sweethearts.
We built a life together. I thought we were building it together, anyway.
When she filed, I genuinely didn't see it coming. I still struggle to understand it.
Camille makes a sound low in her throat.
I say nothing and just keep watching.
There are reports that the split was contentious. Would you say that's accurate?
I'd say Blaire is going through something I don't fully understand. He pauses, choosing his words with careful deliberation. Like he hasn’t fucking rehearsed this.
I love her. I have always loved her. Whatever she needs to work through, I respect that.
But I'd be lying if I said it doesn't hurt to watch someone you've given everything to decide that everything isn't enough.
Given everything to.
I think about the morning I woke up in the hospital. The nurse's careful questions. Colt in the waiting room playing the worried husband for everyone who walked past.
Is there any chance of reconciliation?
He smiles. Sad. Hopeful. Perfectly calibrated. I have to believe there is. Blaire is the love of my life. I'm not ready to give up on that. I'm not sure I ever will be.
The love of his life.
Fucking whore. Can’t do anything right, can you? Why the fuck did I even marry you?
I flinch at the memory and set my coffee down. My hands have started to shake and I don't want Camille to see it.
What would you say to Blaire if she were watching right now?
He looks directly at the camera. Directly at me, it feels like, through the screen, through the wall, through every mile between Downtown Houston and where I'm sitting.
Come home, baby. Whatever this is, we can fix it together. You don't have to do this alone.
I press the power button on the remote, and the television goes dark.
Come home, baby. You don't have to do this alone.
If you don’t get home in ten minutes, that scar over your eyebrow will pale in comparison to what happens to your face next. Come. Home. Now.
"Blaire." Camille's voice is soft as it pulls me back from the onslaught of emotions.
"Let’s get back to work," I say. My voice comes out even. I've had a lot of practice at that. "Get me the Sullivan files so I can confirm who we’re sending to LA."
She nods with an empathetic smile that I don't need to see right now. She senses it and doesn't push. She just walks out quietly to get me what I asked for.
I look at the dark screen on the wall for a moment longer.
Then I open my laptop and get ready for my morning meeting.
I have work to do.
***
I'm the proud owner of Monroe Communications, and on paper, that sounds like everything.
Fortune 500 clients, political campaigns, high level corporate messaging — the kind of work that gets you quoted in industry publications and invited to speak at conferences where everyone in the room is pretending they're not exhausted.
It wasn't what I set out to do with my life, but somewhere between the girl I was and the woman I became, it turned into the thing I was best at. Funny how that happens.
This morning I took a detour to the restroom before heading to the boardroom.
Stood at the sink for longer than I'd like to admit, running cold water over my wrists, doing the breathing exercise my therapist taught me that I use more than I'd ever tell her.
Colt's face on every screen in the building since six AM will do that to a person.
The red suit was a deliberate choice. Tailored within an inch of its life, the kind of fit that requires Spanx and confidence in equal measure.
White blouse, white stilettos, hair up, red lip — the full armor.
I looked at myself in the mirror for a long moment before I left and thought that I looked exactly like a woman who has her life together, which is the whole point, and the only thing I can control today.
I finished the breakdown with a cool napkin to the back of my neck, put my face back where it needed to be, and walked to the conference room like I was walking into any other Monday.
"Good morning, team."
The voices drop the second I push through the door.
That particular hush — the one where a room full of people who were just talking suddenly find very interesting things to look at on the table in front of them — tells me everything.
They've all seen it. Of course they've seen it.
Colt made sure there wasn't a person in Houston who couldn't find it if they tried.
I set my coffee down at the head of the table and don't acknowledge the quiet. Acknowledging it gives it power, and I don't have any to spare today.
"Camille, can you pull up the Sullivan call on the screen, please?"
She moves to the laptop without a word, the model of professionalism. I take my seat and open my notebook, looking around the table at the twelve people I have built this firm with, all of them watching me with varying degrees of concern they're trying to hide behind neutral expressions.
"I know you've all seen the interview," I say.
"I'm not going to address it beyond this; I am fine, the work continues, and nobody in this room owes me their pity. What you owe me is your focus, because we have a significant new engagement to discuss. I need every brain at this table sharp. Do I make myself clear?”
Varying sounds of agreement echo around the table.
I nod to Camille, and she connects the Zoom call. The screen populates with five faces arranged in a grid, and the man in the center leans forward slightly.
"Mrs. Monroe, pleasure to officially meet you. I'm Frank, Chairperson of the Board." He gestures to his right. "Vice Chair Alexander. And our directors, Joseph, Mark, and Leslie."
"Thank you for making the time, Frank." I stand and move toward the screen, falling into the rhythm of a first meeting the way I always do — reading faces, cataloguing energy, identifying who defers to whom.
Frank is composed, but urgent underneath it.
Alexander is watching me carefully. Joseph and Mark are waiting to take their cues from Frank.
Leslie looks like someone who has been trying to solve this problem for a long time and is hoping I'm the solution.
"I've reviewed the Sullivan file thoroughly," I say, "and I'd like to share some initial thoughts before we discuss strategy and next steps." I open my portfolio. "But first, I have one question before we go any further."
Frank nods. "Go ahead."
"Does Mr. Sullivan know we're having this conversation today?"
The pause that follows tells me everything I need to know about how this engagement is going to start.