“Then you admit it,” he says, triumph creeping into his tone. “You abandoned the marriage.”
“I left a man who was cheating on me with multiple women and hiding marital assets,” I say clearly. “There’s a difference. My lawyer explained it very well in our filing.”
There’s a beat of silence. He didn’t expect me to be armed with facts. I can almost hear his brain recalculating.
Then he switches tactics, his voice dropping to something that might have once worked on me. “Snow, listen. We can work this out. You don’t need lawyers. We can sit down, just the two of us, and come to an understanding. This will get ugly and public, and I know you don’t want that. What will people think?”
What will people think? The Darlington family motto. The weapon Bitsy used on me for six years, death by a thousand cuts, the slow erasure of everything I was.
Not that dress, Snow. What will people think?
A job? What will people think?
You can’t discuss politics at dinner. What will people think?
Your mother’s paintings are so… colorful. What will people think?
“I don’t care what people think, Preston,” I say, my voice sharp. “All I care about is the truth. And the truth is documented, filed, and a matter of public record.”
“You’re going to regret this,” he says, his mask finally slipping completely. “My family has resources you can’t even imagine. We’ll bury you.”
“Try,” I say.
I press the end call button before he can respond. The silence that follows is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. It’s the sound of a cage door swinging open. It’s the sound offreedom. My hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the exhilarating, terrifying thrill of taking back my own life.
The drive from Manhattan to Garden City takes forty minutes. I roll down the windows of my car and let the warm afternoon air whip through my hair. With each mile, the adrenaline fades, replaced by something calmer. Satisfaction.
When I pull onto my street, I feel the familiar sense of homecoming that still surprises me even after three weeks in this place. Patricia’s friend had a rental available — pure luck, she’d said, though I suspect Patricia made it happen. The cheerful yellow cottage with its slightly crooked porch, the riot of lavender and wildflowers in the garden that I’ve been tending in the early mornings. It’s a house that feels alive.
I unlock the front door and step inside. The afternoon sunlight streams through the wavy old glass windows, illuminating the life I’ve been building. My yoga mat is unfurled in the sunbeam in the living room, right where I left it this morning. The spare bedroom has been converted into my office, the walls now covered in cork boards with business plans and sketches for the consulting firm I’m going to build. The kitchen still smells faintly of the bread I baked earlier, and my mother’s vibrant, abstract paintings hang on the walls, splashes of color and joy that would have horrified Bitsy.
I make myself a cup of tea — the loose-leaf kind I used to hide in the back of the Darlington pantry, another small thing Preston’s mother disapproved of — and carry it out to the porch. I settle into the worn wicker chair I bought at a yard sale last weekend and breathe in the scent of lavender.
My phone sits silent on the table beside me. Preston won’t call again today. He made his play, and I shut him down. Tomorrow, or the next day, there will be another salvo from his lawyers. Another attempt to intimidate me, to make me small again.
But I’m not small anymore. I’m not the fragile little artist he married. I’m Snow Holloway, and I’m taking back everything he tried to steal from me — my name, my career, my future, and most importantly, myself.
I sip my tea and watch the sun begin its slow descent behind the trees. The air is soft and warm, and somewhere down the street, I can hear children playing. It’s peaceful. It’s mine.
And for the first time in six years, I am free.
Chapter 7
Wyatt
Ihold a half-naked woman in my arms while trying to calculate if I have enough saved to quit after this shoot. Her name is Tiffany. Or was it Stephanie? She told me when we started, but the names, like the faces, tend to blur into one. She smells like coconut hairspray and a desperation so sharp it’s almost a physical scent. My biceps burn from holding this pose, a position of supposed tender dominance that feels more like a wrestling match. The photographer, a wiry man named Antoine with a dramatic scarf draped around his neck, shouts directions from the shadows.
“More passion, Wyatt! Look at her like she’s the only woman in the world! Like you’ve crossed oceans of time for her!”
I do my best to comply, summoning the look I’ve perfected over five years and hundreds of book covers. It’s a mix of smoldering desire and tender protection. The fans call it “The Wyatt.” I call it my ticket out. I focus on a point just over her shoulder, a loose thread on the black backdrop, and think about the new lens I want to buy for my Canon. A 50mm prime lens. Something that captures the world with unflinching clarity, nofake passion required. It costs two thousand dollars. This shoot pays three. The math is simple, but the cost feels higher.
The studio is a white box baking under the glare of the lights. The air is thick with the chemical scent of the smoke machine they’re using for “atmosphere.” It catches in the back of my throat. Tiffany, or whatever her name is, presses against me, her nails digging into my shoulders. “You’re so strong,” she whispers, her voice breathy. It’s part of the act for the photographer, but it’s also an audition for something more. I’ve seen it a thousand times. The hope in their eyes that the fantasy might be real.
“Just doing my job,” I murmur back, my voice a low rumble that the romance blogs seem to love. My Texas drawl, which I’ve tried to soften over the years, always comes out a little thicker in these moments. A defense mechanism. A reminder of who I am underneath the baby oil and the carefully constructed fantasy. It’s a piece of home, a shield against the outside.
Antoine circles us like a shark. “Yes, yes, the jawline! Perfect! Now, Tiffany, touch his face. Gently! As if you can’t believe he’s real.”
Her cool fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I have to fight the urge to flinch. It’s not her fault. She’s just doing her job, too. We’re both cogs in the fantasy machine.
