Every backhanded compliment while her husband just sat there and said nothing.
While he agreed with them.
Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
The shape came easily, the familiar Christmas stocking curve.
Across the cuff where a name should have gone, she embroidered two words in thick, deliberate stitches.
TOO MUCH
A declaration, not an apology.
She sat back. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Lauren reached for her hot glue gun and her box of embellishments. Buttons first—dozens of them, red and gold and pearl-white, overlapping like scales. Then rhinestones, because of course rhinestones. They caught the light and refused to let it go.
She added bows—three different ribbons that didn’t match in color, texture, or logic. Each one wrong in its own way. Each one perfect.
A mist of gold spray paint across the edges until it shimmered, unapologetic.
Too much. Way too much.
Exactly right.
Lauren stood back and looked down at the stocking spread across the worktable. The stocking gleamed.
Tom would hate it.
And tomorrow, it would be photographed for a magazine feature. Seen. Celebrated.
Her phone buzzed beside her. Three missed calls. Two texts.
Can we talk? Please call me back.
Her gaze dropped to her wedding ring. She twisted it, feeling its familiar weight. It used to mean love and protection. Now it felt too heavy.
But it was a weight that she wasn’t ready to take off. Not yet.
But she was ready forthis. Ready to show the world that her craft, her work, hercringe,was worthy of respect.
CHAPTER 19
Tom
Why wasn’tshe replying to his messages?
Tom stared at the schematic on his monitor, the cursor blinking at him expectantly. Foundation specs for the residential project. He'd been looking at the same measurements for twenty minutes, and none of the numbers were sticking.
The office hummed with its usual energy—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, someone laughing too loud by the coffee maker. Normal sounds. A normal day.
Except his wife had left him.
Tom rubbed his eyes and forced himself to focus. Load-bearing wall. Concrete footings. Foundation depth. The whole structure depended on getting the foundation right—everything else built on top of it.
His phone sat on his desk. Still no replies from Lauren. No texts, no calls. Nothing.
Tom stared at his screen. He typed in numbers, deleted them, typed them again.
