Chapter 1

Outside the courthouse, Nicholas Hayden tucked the divorce papers into his suit pocket with the same air of importance as if he were signing a million-dollar contract.

He glanced at me, his eyes as calm as if he were looking at a stranger. "Clara, the house is yours, the car is yours, and the savings are split seventy-thirty. You get thirty, I get seventy. That's about as generous as anyone could be."

I gripped the divorce papers, flashing a wide grin. "Thanks for being so generous, Mr. Hayden. I'll treat your ex-wife to a milkshake sometime."

Nicholas frowned, clearly not getting the joke.

He never checked my social media, so of course he had no idea I'd gotten obsessed with stand-up lately. I had practically filled a whole notebook with jokes.

"Whatever," he said, turning toward his black Maybach. He took a couple of steps, then paused. "Clara, you were the one who wanted the divorce. I never wronged you."

I nodded like crazy. "Yeah, yeah, you didn't. I'm not good enough for you, big-shot lawyer. I'll crawl back to my shoebox apartment and start my tragic single life. You find yourself a proper heiress, have a whole set of perfect twins, and drive your poor ex-wife crazy with envy."

Nicholas took a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing like he was holding something back.

But in the end, he didn't say a word. He opened the car door and drove off.

I stood on the steps outside courthouse, gave his car the finger, spun around three times, and laughed out loud at the sky.

A passing old lady shot me a look full of sympathy, probably thinking I'd been dumped and gone crazy.

She had no clue I'd been waiting for this day for two whole years.

My marriage to Nicholas was pure melodrama, a streetwise girl from a humble neighborhood paired with one of Zhopool's top lawyers, whose dad was a retired high court judge and mom a college professor.

As his mother liked to say, our union was "the Hayden family's luck going up in smoke. But it is the cheap kind, not the good stuff."

In two years of marriage, I never once got a spot at their big family New Year's dinner. I watched from the sidelines.

His mom would go, "Clara, eat in the kitchen. You probably wouldn't even like our food."

So I'd squat right by the kitchen door, digging into a plate of fried chicken, grease all over my mouth, and smack my lips extra loud on purpose.

Nicholas would walk by, his face stormy, but he never said a thing.

He never said a word.

That was how he was. He'd never speak up for me, never be on my side, but he'd never admit he thought less of me either. He'd keep quiet, with that classy, dignified, faultless silence, so I'd end up feeling like I never really fit in.

The spark that set off our divorce was something ridiculously small.

It was his mom's birthday, and I blew three months' pay on a Hermès scarf. But when she opened it in front of all the relatives, she glanced at it and laughed. "Clara, this is a knockoff, right? This color isn't even sold in the stores here."

I was stunned.

The relatives all gave me those "figures" looks, like, "Of course she'd mess up even buying a fake."

Later, I found out the scarf was actually real. It was a limited edition color that hadn't hit the stores here yet. But it was already out overseas. I'd begged a friend who was a shopping agent to wait in line for three days to snag it for me.

But Nicholas either didn't know, or maybe he couldn't be bothered.

That night, when we got home, he said to me, "Clara, don't bother with gifts anymore. You really don't have an eye for this stuff."

I looked at him, and I just stopped being angry.

I said, "Nicholas, let's get a divorce."

His hand froze mid-tie, then he said, "Okay."

No attempt to stop me, no questions, not even a second glance.

It was as casual as if I'd just suggested, "Let's have noodles for dinner tonight."

Alright then. Divorce it was.

I, Clara Sanford, had never been scared of anything. And walking away from someone who didn't love me was the easiest thing in the world.

Life after the divorce was a million times better than I ever imagined.

With the money I got from the split, I rented a tiny studio and went back to my old job as a jewelry designer. I knew the ropes. I'd worked for an indie jewelry brand before I got married.

But then Nicholas's mom, Sharon, said, "A married woman shouldn't be out there working," and I, in a moment of total brain fog, actually quit.

Looking back, that was probably the dumbest thing I've ever done.

The second dumbest was marrying Nicholas.

Every morning, I'd start with an iced coffee, and every night, I'd end with a bowl of spaghetti. In between, I'd sketch until my hands cramped up, but every single minute felt like pure freedom.

Six weeks after the divorce, just when I thought life couldn't get any better, things took a turn.

I was halfway through sketching a necklace when my stomach started churning. I didn't think much of it and kept drawing. Then another wave hit. I grabbed some water to settle it.

The third time, I couldn't take it anymore. I dashed to the bathroom, clung to the toilet, and threw up so hard I felt dizzy and wiped out.