Chapter 2

A decade's worth of memories flooded my mind, hitting me with a sharp, suffocating sting.

At twenty, I'd just taken first place in the National College Photography Awards. My acceptance letter from the Prismere Arts Academy was waiting on my desk.

I was always the one in the spotlight, bright and fiercely confident, while Michael was nothing more than another face in the crowd vying for my attention.

After I graduated at twenty-two, a truck lost control and came barreling toward me on the street. Michael threw himself into traffic and shoved me out of the way.

He loved me so much that he could risk his life for me.

I mistook that for salvation. I told myself that if someone could love me that much, I must be worth loving.

So I made peace with the world. I gave up my dreams of studying art abroad. And by twenty-four, I became Mrs. Grant.

During the first two years of our marriage, Michael pampered me, sweet-talking me into leaving the workforce altogether.

Over time, that sweet devotion turned into poison. He betrayed me, just like how I had betrayed the girl I used to be.

Where did it all go wrong? It started right after my third miscarriage.

Michael brought Emmy home, introducing her as the little sister of the friend who died saving him.

Ever since, he hid his blatant flirtation behind the excuse of paying back a life debt, leaving the older version of me to swallow my grief and smile through the disrespect.

"What an absolute joke," I muttered through gritted teeth. My thumbs scrolled frantically through my phone.

The checking account held peanuts. Michael kept me on a tight leash, giving me just enough to get by.

My text thread with my parents was a relentless stream of them begging for handouts.

But the Notes app broke me the most. It was packed with pathetic reminders: [Michael hates cilantro.] [Pick up his suits from the cleaners.] [Get a nice gift for his mom's birthday.] and so on.

My palm slammed against the glass with a loud crack. Fractures spiderwebbed across the mirror, shattering the reflection of the woman I'd become.

From every jagged shard, the twenty-year-old me stared back with raw fury. "How did you let yourself fall this low?"

The dam broke, and hot tears streamed down my face.

At twenty, I wrote in my journal that I'd make a name for myself as a photographer and architect.

But look at me now. My gear was covered in dust, my ambitions had rotted away, and my pride had been trampled beneath Michael's boots.

I had turned into the exact kind of helpless dependent I swore I'd never be.

Part of me ached for the woman who had suffered through all that, but another part despised her for throwing my future in the trash. There was no way in hell I was going to live like that.

*****

Once I got my feelings under control, I started organizing my paperwork. I set up one folder for a divorce attorney and another to get my career back on track.

My screen lit up with a text from Emily James: [Hate to break it to you, Mrs. Grant, but looks like your husband loves me more. I win.]

Being Mrs. Grant meant nothing to the twenty-year-old me. I still had my claws. I never let petty drama slide and hit back harder.

I snapped a screenshot and dropped the receipts straight into Michael's company-wide Slack channel.

I couldn't care less about playing nice or dealing with the fallout. If I felt like doing it, I did it.

The chat blew up instantly, notifications pinging like crazy. I watched the drama unfold with total indifference.

[What's happening?]

[Is Emily out of her mind?]

[Maybe we shouldn't get involved in Mr. Grant's personal life.]

Everyone was dying for the tea, but nobody had the guts to say anything outright with Michael around.

A couple of brave ones dropped wide-eyed emojis before quickly deleting them.

My phone began vibrating violently, Michael's caller ID flashing on the screen.

I held down the power button and shut it off. Then there was nothing but quiet.

Back when Michael was still chasing me, he would have done anything to please me. Now he had a whole playbook of manipulative tricks.

Sure enough, my mother was knocking on my door within the hour.