The night my husband threw me out, the rain did not merely fall; it lashed against the asphalt, turning the street into a river of shattered black glass. The cold was absolute, biting through the thin cotton of my blouse, but it was nothing compared to the ice radiating from the open doorway of the Evergreen House—the home I had paid half the mortgage for.
He didn’t even allow me to take an umbrella.
“Three years,” Adrian said. He stood framed in the warm, golden light of the foyer, a silhouette of manufactured perfection. “Three completely wasted years, Mara. No child. No legacy. Nothing.”
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Behind him, seated in the velvet armchair I had painstakingly restored with my own hands, his mother, Eleanor, smiled. It wasn’t a smile of malice, which would have been easier to bear. It was a smile of calm, serene satisfaction. She sipped her Earl Grey, looking over the delicate gold rim of her teacup as if she were watching a mildly entertaining, albeit predictable, television drama.
And then, there was Celeste.
His new woman lounged against the sweeping mahogany staircase. She possessed the kind of effortless, careless beauty that made other women feel instantly tired. But it wasn’t her youth that made the breath catch in my throat like a swallowed razor blade.
It was what she was wearing. My vintage emerald silk robe.
My silk robe. The one I had bought in Milan on our honeymoon. The one I had saved for special occasions, treating the delicate fabric as if it held the very essence of my marriage. Now, it was draped casually over the shoulders of the woman who had dismantled my life.
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I tore my eyes away from the shimmering green silk and stared down at the pathetic leather suitcase Adrian had packed for me and unceremoniously shoved onto the wet porch. I already knew what was inside. He had allowed me to pack it under his supervision an hour ago. Two wool sweaters. One pair of sensible walking shoes. And my grandmother’s silver-framed photograph, which Adrian had carelessly dropped onto the hardwood floor, leaving a jagged crack running directly across her smiling face.
“That’s all?” I asked. My voice was dangerously quiet, barely audible over the roaring thunder.
Adrian’s mouth curled into a sneer that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You should be profoundly thankful I’m not demanding compensation.”
“Compensation?” I echoed, the word tasting like ash. “For what?”
“For wasting my youth. For the embarrassment of your barrenness.”
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