PROLOGUE
Molly
Istep into the courtroom dressed in a fake mink fur coat, a crimson skintight wiggle dress, and Louboutin heels. At twenty-nine, I never think I’d be asking for a divorce. Never think I’d be the scorned starter wife. But such is the luck of a woman who falls in love with a toad masquerading as a prince.
My heels click on the hardwood floor as I approach the table where my lawyer sits. My steps don’t falter as I see Bradley, my soon-to-be ex, rise from his seat on the opposite side of the courtroom.
I narrow my gaze on the worm.Not today, Satan.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed, with a body that practically vibrates with vitality, he’s always been a charmer. We met in high school, where he swept me off my feet, showering me with love, gifts, and adoration. Looking back, I was the perfect target for a serial cheater.
I’m the youngest and only girl of five children—Hendrix, George, Thomas, Samuel, then me. My father loves alcohol, and my mother was satisfied with naming rights for a girl. Maleficent Glorious Archer.
Don’t even get me started on the ridicule that comes with that name.
Growing up, we were a solidly lower-middle-class family. My father was, and remains, the breadwinner, while my mother was a homemaker due to her health. They struggled to make ends meet until my father accepted a position as principal of an exclusive boarding school. Along with the position came housing, a generous salary, and free tuition for his five unruly children.
Of course, he accepted without hesitation. My father happens to be a very smart and fiscally responsible man. But then, one must be with seven mouths to feed.
And thus, our foray into the world of the rich and famous began. My brothers’ slotted into their new lives easily—winning over their cohorts with a mixture of good humor, charm, and athleticism. Meanwhile, I was relegated to the dregs of self-loathing. Unable to keep up with the ever-changing fashions and expensive hobbies of the girls within my year, I grew shy and withdrawn, retreating into books and study. Before I could blink, I became the “poor nerd” of my year.
Until Brad.
Bradley Eastern Roddenbery-Chadwick came from money. The kind of money that makes your head spin. He needed a tutor to pass math if he wanted to continue to play lacrosse, and I agreed to assist him. It started out as a purely transactional relationship, tutoring for cash. But he quickly charmed his way into my life, then into my pants.
I felt like Cinderella, the nerdy, poor girl finally seen by the gorgeous, wealthy prince. He swept me off my feet and into a world of privilege and connections unlike any I’ve ever known.
Any barrier that might have been raised quickly tumbled. His parents adored me, my parents adored him, and apart frommy brothers, who felt he wasn’t good enough for me and never would be, all seemed right in our world.
Our high school romance survived a move to college, his graduation, my graduation, and a small rough patch when someone anonymously emailed me about a potential cheating incident the week before our wedding. But Brad smoothed it all over, reassuring me that it was all lies sent by an anonymous troll.
I should have listened to Anonymous.
After over a decade together, our life crashed down the day the STI result arrived.
Chlamydia.
For years, I blissfully followed him, allowing him to make all the decisions. Where we lived, what we wore, what cars to drive, where to vacation, what to eat. I loved him with my whole heart, trusting that he did the same.
Pity he loved everyone with his dick.
The only thing that was and is mine and mine alone is my career. It was a bone of contention between us, pushing Brad to comment on more than one occasion how it reflects poorly upon him that I work.
After all, women in his circle rarely pursued careers. It wouldn’t do for the males of the household to appear as if they couldn’t afford the lavish lifestyles of their wives. Charity work, I was told, is acceptable. But something that actually pays? Absolutely out of the question.
Say what you want about feminism, but the concept hasn’t yet reached the upper echelons of society in which Brad revolves.
His mother, Mimi, took me under her wing when we became engaged, teaching me the art of decoration. Our role, she explained with all seriousness, was to adorn the arm of our man.We were to be a credit to our husbands, to not embarrass him, to grace his life like a pretty ornament reflecting his every whim.
My one rebellion was my career—and it’s the one thing that saved me over the last few months as I struggled to begin a life free from the shackles of our relationship.
Holding my head high, I stride to the table, smiling my thanks when my lawyer helps me into my seat. Crossing my legs, I note that the skirt of my dress falls open just so, revealing a length of thigh toward Brad’s side of the room.
Good. Let him see what he threw away.
Perhaps it’s petty. But the dress and heels are a hell of a lot cheaper than a criminal lawyer—and I don’t want to go through the mess of dealing with a murder accusation, no matter how deserved that might be.
Chlamydia.
