“Right,”Rina said, signaling the waiter with authority. “We’re drinking, and Lauren’s not paying a cent because her husband’s an ass.”
Lauren sat wedged into the corner booth, surrounded by her colleagues like a protective pack. The restaurant still wore its Christmas lights—soft, twinkling lies.
“He’s not—” Lauren began, but Sage waved her off.
“No defending him. We heard the story.”
Vivian, already shrugging off her immaculate coat, said, “And the cheese board. This requires alcoholandcheese.”
When the wine arrived, Vivian poured generously. “Start from the top.”
And Lauren did.
The words spilled out faster than she meant them to: Judith’s quiet contempt, the silence that had followed, the quilt, the check, her idiotic snooping, Mia’s necklace.
Tom calling her “cringe.”
The inescapable truth that Tom didn’t want someone like her.
By the time she finished, her voice was raw, and her glass was empty.
Rina looked ready to throw hands.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Lauren said softly. “The look on his face when he saw what I’d made him.”
The table fell silent—charged, pulsing with collective fury.
"Lauren, I've been married three times," Vivian said then. Her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around her wine glass. “The first husband cheated. The second was an asshole. The third seemed great at first, but he wore me down, day by day.”
She paused to take a sip of wine, letting that sink in.
"You know which one did the most damage? The third one. Because at least the cheater and the jerk were obviously problems. By the time I saw that the third was taking more than he was giving, I was convinced that wanting more was greedy. That I should be grateful."
Lauren felt tears prick her eyes.
"I wasted eight years with him," Vivian continued. "Eight years telling myself I was lucky, that other women had it worse."
"But you divorced him," Wren said softly.
"Eventually.” Vivian's laugh was bitter. She raised her glass. “To Lauren. For realizing sooner than most of us do.”
The toast broke the tension—glasses clinked, laughter bubbled up, sharp and bright.
Sage grinned. “That wreath you brought in? The ‘I Deserve Better’ one? That’s a statement.”
“Thatshould be our January feature,” Rina said over her wine glass. “An anti-holiday spread.”
Vivian’s eyes gleamed. “What if it was?”
There was a pause as the table processed Vivian’s words.
And suddenly everyone was talking—page counts, layouts, art direction, print deadlines. Hands waving, phones out, calendars open, a hundred moving parts snapping into motion.
Lauren sat still, half-dizzy, watching the swirl of conversation like it was a storm she’d somehow summoned.
Lauren blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” Vivian said. “I need your wreath, and one or maybe two more pieces. Something bold.”
