Chapter 5

She looks like a wilted little flower in a storm.

Asher melts.

"Okay, okay. No more teasing. I'm sorry."

I'll give Chloe this much— she's smarter than the rest of them.

She doesn't post passive-aggressive captions on Instagram. Doesn't call me to flex about whose bed Asher's in tonight. Doesn't text me photos of his hand on her thigh.

She plays the wide-eyed innocent.

"I'm just trying to fit in! I'd never come between you two!"

One sharp word from me, and Asher's already convinced she's the victim.

I've seen prettier girls. Younger ones. Bolder ones. They all crashed and burned because they were in too much of a hurry. Pushing him to commit. Texting me to back off.

Chloe? Chloe just moved in. Belly first. Calling me "sis" like we're family.

She did what none of them could.

---

1:50 p.m. I'm sitting on a wooden bench outside the courthouse.

I've called Asher nine times.

This time he picks up.

"Where are you?" I ask.

His voice is so casual it's insulting. "I'm at Chloe's prenatal appointment. Can't really leave. I'll swing by when we're done."

"I told you. Two o'clock. Divorce filing."

"The divorce isn't going anywhere, sweetheart." Like he's coaxing a tantruming toddler. "Wait till Chloe's done with her ultrasound. Talk later."

He hangs up.

Wait.

Always wait.

I look around the lobby. Couples shuffling in and out. Some dabbing their eyes. Some staring straight through the wall. Some signing with steady, expressionless hands.

I used to cry like that. The full breakdown. Begging. Snot and mascara everywhere.

And every time, Asher would soften, pull me back, and reward me with a "fine, we won't get divorced." Like that was a prize.

Today I'm done collecting his prizes.

A clerk calls the next number.

I pull up my contacts and text my lawyer:

Megan— file for divorce. Contested. I'll send the paperwork over this afternoon.

---

That night, after my father-in-law's third call, I drive out to the Vance estate alone.

The whole way there I'm rehearsing.

How do I tell the old man? That his son knocked up his side piece? That he's pressuring me to sign? That I'm filing in court?

Family politics. Sometimes they're worse than the actual lawsuit.

I show up alone.

The old man pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. "Where's Asher?"

"Busy."

"Busy?" He sets the fork down hard. "What the hell is more important than his wife?"

I don't answer.

Mr. Vance and my late father were brothers in everything but blood. They served together. Bled together. He'd wanted Asher and me married since we were kids.

His wife wasn't sold. My family wasn't rich enough. I'd been seriously sick as a teenager, and she decided my "energy" was wrong for her son.

But Asher refused to walk away.

He drove out to St. Bartholomew's, the old cathedral on the hill, and walked the entire mile-long stone pilgrimage path on his knees.

A hundred steps. By the end, his knees were raw and bloody.

He knelt at the altar and said: "I don't need to be with Scarlett. I just need her to be okay."

When I heard about it, I cried for two days straight.

He was always the one running toward me. I was always the one shrinking back, scared I wasn't enough.

After that I grabbed his hand and said, "I'm done hiding. If you want to marry me, I'll say yes."

I got better.

I went home with him.

The old man was so happy he transferred a third of his stock options into my name as my dowry. "For the family to see," he said. "So you're protected."

Back then I thought Asher's mother was the worst thing standing between us.

Now I know.

Outsiders never destroy a marriage.

Only the two people inside it can do that.