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 PRbimbo?”
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 plannedhis 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 hasmylast 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.
I want to tell her to go to hell. To take her soft voice and her glassy hazel eyes and get the fuck out of my kitchen. But I can’t shake the way her hands keep curling into fists like she’s bracing for a hit that never comes.
“That’s your time,” I say finally, but it comes out quieter than I meant.
She nods, like she expected it. “If you ever want the full truth about him… I’ve got it.”
I don’t answer. Not yet. But I don’t make her leave, either.
The silence stretches, heavy enough to bend the air. She shifts her weight like she’s ready to go, but her eyes linger on me—searching, measuring, maybe even daring me to ask. I hate that part of me wants to.
“You’re still here,” I finally say, turning toward the counter just to keep from looking at her. I busy my hands with a coffee mug that’s already clean. “That’s a dangerous choice.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Stella.”
I glance back over my shoulder, letting my stare cut into her. “You should be.”
For a second, her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t step back. She just sets a business card on the counter—plain white, no team logo, no PR title—just her name and number.
“I meant what I said,” she tells me. “About the truth. You think you know all of it, but you don’t.”
