Chapter 1
My husband’s girl best friend kissed him in front of two hundred people.
And Harrison didn’t push her away.
Spain had just scored their second goal in the World Cup semifinal when the entire pub erupted.
Beer flew through the air. Men screamed.
Strangers hugged beneath the red-and-gold Spanish flags hanging from the ceiling.
Harrison and Bianca were both British, but they had followed Spain since university, and Bianca had advertised the match as a Spanish supporters’ night.
A local sports channel was broadcasting the crowd live from The King’s Hound.
Then Bianca climbed onto the bar and jumped into my husband’s arms.
Harrison caught her.
Her legs wrapped around his waist.
Her hands held his face.
And she kissed him.
Not on the cheek.
On the mouth.
The kiss lasted long enough for the pub’s camera to find them. Their faces appeared on every screen in the room.
People cheered.
Someone shouted, “Get a room!”
I stood six feet away, holding the beer I had bought for my husband.
Bianca finally pulled back, laughing.
“Twelve years, Harry!” she shouted. “Every important match, you’ve been beside me!”
Harrison was laughing too.
He didn’t put her down until he saw me.
His smile disappeared.
Bianca followed his gaze.
“Oh, Dahlia.” She slid from his arms. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous. Spain is going to the final.”
The people closest to us went quiet.
They were waiting for me to become the unreasonable wife.
I had played that role before.
When Harrison disappeared for nearly an hour after our wedding rehearsal, he said Bianca had suffered a panic attack.
When I questioned why she needed him instead of anyone else, I was insecure.
When she gave him a photo album titled The Life You Could Have Had Without Her, I couldn’t take a joke.
Whenever she crossed a line, Harrison gave me the same excuse.
“Bianca doesn’t mean anything by it.”
I looked at him.
“Do you have something to say?”
He stepped closer and lowered his voice.
“It was a goal celebration. Don’t make a scene.”
I almost laughed.
Bianca had kissed my husband, but I was embarrassing him.
“You held her.”
“She jumped at me. Was I supposed to let her fall?”
“You could have stopped kissing her.”
“I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me.”
“And you let her.”
His expression hardened.
“You don’t understand football culture.”
Bianca touched his arm.
“Harry, leave it. Dahlia always assumes the worst about me.”
Harrison didn’t tell her to stop.
He moved in front of her instead.
Protecting her.
Again.
That hurt more than the kiss.
I slowly removed the red-and-gold scarf Harrison had given me on our first date.
I folded it and placed it on the bar.
“Enjoy the final,” I said.
Harrison frowned. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer.
I walked out as the final whistle sent the crowd into another celebration behind me.
Cold rain struck my face as soon as I reached the street.
My hands were shaking, but I didn’t call Harrison.
I opened my phone and blocked Bianca on every platform.
Then I changed my profile picture.
The photograph of Harrison kissing my forehead on our wedding day disappeared.
For the first time in six years, my picture showed only me.