CHAPTER
ONE
ALMA
I’ve madea lot of questionable decisions in my life, but storing my soon-to-be ex-husband’s dead body in the trunk of my car feels like a new low. Panic floods me—again—as I stare at the awkward, discombobulated heap.
This is definitely not what my lawyer meant by cutting ties.
“What am I gonna do?” I whisper to myself, my stomach flopping around like a dead fish. “Why the fuck did you move the body?”
Great question. One I don’t really have the answer to. All I remember is fear and how it bested me in the moment, how it climbed into the driver’s seat and made the decisionsforme…
“Retract it,” he grits between his teeth, fists balling at his sides.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. He’s always been like this—quick to anger, quick to assume that if he says something with enough confidence, it becomes reasonable by default. Honestly, it’s such a turn off. Not sure how or why I ever thought I loved this man.
Chuckling into my glass, I shake my head and savor what remains of the wine. “No, thank you. It’s the least you could do after your little rendezvous.”
Lance opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He shuts it just as quickly and thins his lips, hazel eyes narrowing in annoyance. That look, the one that says I’m the problem for being upset he fucked someone else, finally does it.
“You know what really pisses me off?” I set my glass down with more force than necessary. The stem rattles against the table, sloshing red wine onto the white runner my mother bought us as a housewarming gift. “It’s not even that you cheated. It’s that you think I’m stupid enough to buy whatever excuse you’re workshopping right now.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are.” I stand, chair legs screeching like a paid actor. “You absolutely are. You didn’t trip and fall into her pussy, Lance.”
His jaw tightens, the dusting of salt and pepper scruff rippling beneath it. “You don’t have to be crude.”
I laugh, sharp and ugly, the kind that feels like it scraped its way out of my chest. “It’s not crude when it’s the truth.”
Lance’s gaze drops then to the manila folder sitting between us. “Retract it,” he says again, his tone clipped, professional, as if we were negotiating severance instead of a marriage.
I follow his stare to the divorce papers, to the alimony clause I tabbed in an aggressive neon pink. You know, so he wouldn’t miss it after I initially had him served with the papers. “No.”
“You don’t need it.” His voice drags my attention back up to his face. “You can work.”
Six months ago, he promised I wouldn’t have to.
He promised me the stay-at-home-wife life. An escape hatch from student loans, credit card debt, cubicles, and pretending ambition was enough to keep the lights on, while simultaneously watching my older coworkers rot in theirergonomic chairs. He promised me security, comfort, that I wouldn’t always be so goddamn tired.
Turns out what he meant was dependent.
“I gave up my job for you,” I remind him. “At your suggestion.”
“And I paid for everything,” he snaps, the same way he used to in budget meetings when someone questioned his numbers. “Your car, your phone, your?—”
“Your credit card paid for your mistress too, so I guess we’re both into generosity and sharing resources.”
“I told you, that was a mistake.”
I laugh unintentionally this time, a flippant sound that slips out before I can stop it. “A mistake is forgetting to file a receipt, Lance. You fucked her three months into our marriage. In hotels around town, on business trips, on my fuckingbirthday.”
He shoves away from the island and begins pacing like a caged animal. “I can’t believe you went through my statements.”
“And like I’ve told you, I kinda had to when the card bounced during lunch with Noelle. Do you know how embarrassing that was?”
No answer. No acknowledgement. He simply continues pacing and waves his hand in the air. “She meant nothing.”
