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Claire shrugs. “That’s not how this works. Besides, the whole thing was live-streamed. There’s not really anything more we can do.”

“What about Augustus?” It’s a reach, but it’s the only card I have left to play.

“What about him?” Claire asks.

“Shouldn’t he be held partially liable? He’s the one who signed us up for that late-night talk show against my consent. That’s what we were fighting about to begin with. He knows I hate that guy. He always goes off script and asks the most invasive questions…”

“Now, honey, that’s hardly a good reason to warrant your behavior,” my mother scolds, but neither one of us acknowledges her.

“I’m sorry, Kira, but what’s your argument exactly? Augustus wasn’t arrested for ramming his car into a group of paparazzi. If anything, the video clears him of any responsibility, seeing as he was the one chasing you and begging you to come back…”

Probably because he was the one who called the paparazzi in the first place. I can’t prove it, but I wouldn’t put it past him. He’d been provoking me into a fight all morning, bringing up everything he could think of to piss me off. By the time I lost my shit, he’d already suggested I make an appointment to see someone about my “lazy eye,” reminded me that my feet were way too big to leave the house wearing flats, and asked if I could stop going overboard with yoga classes because I was looking a little too bulky. The bomb he dropped about the talk show was just the last straw.

He may look like a nice guy on the surface, but the man is evil. He’s just really good at hiding it.

“I guess I should’ve rammed Augustus with my car,” I mutter under my breath.

Tabitha scribbles something on her notepad. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“Kira!” my mother gasps. “That’s hardly the way you should speak about your husband…”

Ignoring her, I slap my hand on the table. “Isn’t it illegal to record people without their consent?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Claire says, rolling her eyes.

“Kira, you’ve made a mistake, and you need to own it. This isn’t anyone’s fault but your own⁠—”

“If that’s all you need from me, then I’ll be on my way.” Tabitha abruptly stands from her chair, like she can’t make herself endure this any longer. “I’ll send you a copy of everything tonight. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I don’t even spare her a glance, just wave my hand in thanks. I’m not feeling particularly grateful with today’s outcome, but if Tabitha says she did everything she could, then I have to believe her.

Turning my attention back to Claire, I try my very last card. I must really be desperate if I’m stooping this low. “But, seriously, what about Augustus? Shouldn’t he be punished?”

“Kira, I just told you, Augustus wasn’t video’d…”

“No, I’m not talking about the video. I’m talking about his image. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s sleeping around.”

She blinks at me like she’s bored with this entire conversation. Because of course he’s sleeping around. He’s the Sexiest Man Alive, and the only thing holding our marriage together are the hopes and dreams of our agents and countless other invested parties…and the steel-clad prenup, of course.

I can’t exactly get divorced if I don’t have any money to pay for it.

I shake my head… “I’m serious, Claire. He had a woman in our hotel room when I walked in. Her bra was on the floor, and it smelled like fresh sex…”

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. I almost feel sorry for the poor woman who has the misfortune of enduring Augustus’s pitiful excuse for sex.

“Kira!” My mother gasps, her hand clenching the diamond pendant necklace she bought herself for Mother’s Day a few years back. “Now you’re just being crude!”

“And? Your point is?” Claire asks, her irritation becoming more apparent.

I lean back in my chair. “It’s only a matter of time before he gets caught. Then what?”

Claire lets out an exasperated sigh, like she can’t believe she has to deal with this. “He’s a man, Kira—a likable one at that, which is more than anyone’s ever said about you. You know as well as I do that the same rules don’t apply.”

I slump against the table, feeling the last sliver of hope drain out of me.

Don’t I know it. Somebody ought to cross-stitch that on a pillow.

Her phone buzzes with a message, and she types out a long response before glancing back up at me. “Look, right now, I think a better use of our time is to figure out a game plan. I’ll make some calls and see if I can find a virtual anger management program, and we’ll get you set up to get your volunteer hours. Do you have somewhere you can go to lay low for the summer? I need you to disappear from the public eye.”