I nearly ignored the call.
But the moment Adrian’s name flashed across my screen, a chill ran through me.
Six months after our divorce, he was standing outside a lavish church in Manhattan.
“Emma,” he said brightly, his artificial kindness sharp as a blade, “I wanted you to hear it from me before anyone else. Today, I’m marrying Vanessa.”
Behind him, violins filled the air and guests laughed, crystal glasses clinked together—a soundtrack of wealth and refined cruelty honoring a man who had shattered my life and still expected admiration.
I glanced down at my daughter.
Her tiny hand had wrapped itself around my hospital gown.
“Congratulations,” I replied.
He laughed once more.
“Still so distant. That’s exactly why our marriage failed.”
“Why are you calling?”
“To invite you, of course. Vanessa thinks closure is healthy. No hard feelings.”
Vanessa.
My former assistant.
The same woman who smiled warmly and praised my outfits while sneaking into hotel rooms with my husband during his so-called business trips to Chicago, Miami, and Los Angeles. The same woman who memorized how I took my coffee before secretly forwarding him my private emails behind my back.
