I look at myself in the mirror and see a broken woman.
It’s obvious I’ve been crying.
My heartbreak is etched on my face.
Eventually, I lie down, stare at the ceiling, and listen to the wind outside.
I don’t know what happens next—except that I’m alone.
After she’s home in a couple of days, I’ll go to Katya’s place. She offered to come back earlier, but it’s Christmas, probably Anya’s last.
I’ve already moved most of my clothes into her spare bedroom. I’ll live with her until I’m ready to be alone again.
Katya has warned me that it may take six months for the divorce to be finalized—maybe longer. She’s certain the Winters will fight tooth and nail to keep me from getting half of Aiden’s shares in Winter Financial.
A part of me wants to say “screw it.” I never married him for his family’s money. I never even wanted it.
But the other part—the louder, angrier, still-bleeding part—wants justice. Wants payback. Because my heart isn’t that big, and forgiveness doesn’t come easy when you’ve been gutted by the people you tried so hard to love.
But I know now that these are people who will never learn.
They’ll never grow.
But, by God, they will, for once in their lives, feel the sting of consequences.
CHAPTER 12
Aiden
It’s been four days since Christmas Eve, and I can’t find my wife.
Katya isn’t home, and Mia isn’t there. I checked several times and even camped outside her place for a couple of hours to see if anyone came in or out, until a neighbor got suspicious and asked me what the hell I was doing.
I was so sure she’d be with her best friend.
I’ve tried to call Mia, but she’s blocked me.
I called Katya, and she went into lawyer mode before I could even say hello.
She’s not my wife’s friend, she told me when I tried to find out where Mia is; she’s Mia’s lawyer, and all I’m entitled to is a conversation about the divorce papers. Documents I haven’t bothered to read.
I don’t want to divorce my wife. I want to apologize to her.
“So the shit finally hit the fan?” Huxley isn’t smug about it, just matter-of-fact.
I asked to meet because I need to talk to someone and figure out how to fix my messed-up life.
We’re at the bar of Huxley’s newest hotel,The Roaming Finch—an upscale boutique spot nestled in downtown Burlington.
Nineteen-forties jazz plays in the background. The lighting is speakeasy moody, designed for quiet conversations and expensive drinks.
I’ve been here for half an hour and haven’t ordered anything.
Huxley sits next to me, angled to face me. He’s drinking scotch while wearing an infuriatingly calm expression when I’m in crisis, which pisses me off.
He hasn’t said I told you so. That’s not his style. Also, he doesn’t have to, does he?
“Yeah, it hit the fan.”
