I harden my voice. “Fuck off and don’t come back. Even if you were the last man on earth, I’d never give you another chance. You broke me. Smashed my heart to pieces when I trusted you most.”
His face collapses. He nods, one jerky, defeated movement, and without a word, turns and leaves my flat forever. The door clicks closed, I know I’ll never see him again.
I exhale, hard and fast. Every muscle unclenching.
Finally, I’ve drawn a line under our marriage and all the devastation he caused me.
It’s over. Really over.
I finish packing my tiny handbag and grab my keys. For the first time in a long time, I feel like a woman who knows herself. With a slow, satisfied smile, I stride out into the night, ready to enjoy all that Halloween has to offer.
Chapter forty
Ivan
As Amy struts around the stage, my dick wakes from its slumber. Her tiny pink sparkly thong sits perfectly between her pert butt cheeks.
Fuck, I miss her. Since we broke up, I’ve been attending every competition with the hopes of seeing her. Each time, I’ve scanned the crowds, my fingers twitching, willing my eyes to land on that high blonde ponytail. They haven’t.
She hasn’t been at any competitions in the past five months. I’d planned to orchestrate a chance scenario to be able to speak to her. On arriving today, my jaw dropped that she was actually here.
This was the last try. After this, I was going to put my big boy pants on and lift the bloody phone. Not that I haven’t tried, but every time, I cancel the call. My finger hits the red button before I can stop it. I know I can’t face her rejection.
Trey shook his head and glowered as soon as he saw me. He’s like her fucking guard dog. If he wasn’t gay and married, I’d say he was in love with her. Maybe he is in his own way. Amy Corrigan invades your heart and doesn’t let go. Her hairbrush, the only item left in her wake, still sits on my bedside table. Throwing it out feels like admitting she’s not coming back.
I’m standing in the judge’s box as we watch each competitor perform their routine. Amy steps on stage, her eyes flick upward along with her chin. She stares out into the cheering crowd as she strikes her first pose. I retreat to the back wall, not wanting the sight of me to distract her. My pulse kicks in anyway, distance makes no difference.
Trying to cover my tracks, I’ve sunk thousands of pounds into the bodybuilding circuit this season, which is more than ever. I’m sponsoring all the main events. I wanted a reason to be here that wasn’t her, even though I said it was about giving back. The thump of hope in my chest as soon as I knew she was here proved that was a lie.
She’s permanently ingrained in my mind. Always my first thought when I wake up and my last dream at night. Nothing holds my interest anymore. Business deals and cheap women don’t intrigue me. Apart from working and attending these events, I’ve barely been out of the house.
My bed lies unmade, meals uneaten, but every trash TV season I can get my hands on has been binged. The silence in my apartment is a constant reminder of the voice I want to hear.
“Ivan,” the chief judge says, turning to face me. “Are you staying for the winner’s meal this evening?”
I swallow. “Possibly.”
Only if Amy Corrigan wins.
“They have a Michelin-star chef in the kitchen. It promises to be spectacular. I’ve heard through the grapevine that they’re serving exotic meats. Someone said crocodile was on the menu.”
My stomach heaves. I’ve eaten it once before in the deepest darkest part of Australia when I decided to take some time out to travel. It was a mistake. I’d spent three days tied to the toilet.
“Hopefully, there’s an alternative…”
“Not your thing?” he enquires. “There was me thinking you were a man of the world.”
I scowl at him. What a dick.
The competitors in Amy’s class return to the stage. Twelve women line up, turned slightly to the side, one high-heeled foot pointing toward the audience. Strong hands placed on taught hips, beaming smiles displaying blinding white teeth against deeply tanned skin.
Amy stands on the end, taller than the rest. I hold my breath. My world narrows to that single spot on stage. I need her to win this, as if her triumph will bring her one inch closer to coming back.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer calls, “I think we can all agree we have a stunning line-up of ladies in front of us.”
There’s only one I’m interested in.
“But there can only be one winner…” He pauses. Everyone in the room falls silent. “Your winner is… Amy Corrigan.”
