Chapter 1

At my 30th birthday party, my husband wrapped an arm around his first love and announced to the entire room, "She was the woman I wanted to marry. Too bad she never wanted me. So I settled for the plain wife waiting at home."

He laughed and patted my cheek. "Just kidding. Don't take it seriously."

Everyone burst out laughing. He waited for me to give him that forgiving smile I'd worn for the past three years.

But I didn't, not this time.

I slowly raised my glass of red wine and poured every last drop over his smug face.

Later that night, I tossed the divorce papers in front of him.

"The joke's over. You can give Mrs. Landon's place to your precious first love."

*****

My 30th birthday party was a joke.

My husband, Andrew Landon, stood in the center of the crowd, his arm around his first love, Emily White, laughing like a fool who thought he'd won it all.

"Seriously," he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear.

"Back then, the one I really wanted to marry was Emily. Too bad she wasn't interested in me!" Andrew declared, making sure everyone heard.

Laughter erupted like a tidal wave.

Emily playfully hit him. "Andrew, stop it. Claire's here."

"What's the big deal?" Andrew laughed, turning to me with that familiar teasing look. "Claire's always so generous. It's just a joke, right, Claire?"

He let go of Emily and walked over to me, reaching out to tap my cheek.

Just like he'd done countless times over the past three years, after saying something hurtful, he'd use this playful gesture to make it all seem like a joke.

But before his finger could touch my skin, I raised my hand, picked up a half-empty glass of red wine someone had left nearby, and flicked my wrist.

The dark red liquid dripped down his straight nose.

The room fell silent.

The music kept playing, but everyone's smiles froze on their faces.

Emily covered her mouth, her eyes wide, but I caught a flash of triumph in them.

Andrew froze for a second, then exploded. "Claire! Are you crazy?"

His voice was distorted with shock and embarrassment, the wine on his face making him look both pathetic and ridiculous.

I didn't say a word. I gently placed the piece of cake in my hand back on the tray and turned to leave.

"Claire! Stop right there!" he shouted after me. "It was just a joke! Is it really that big of a deal? You're 30. Can't you stop being so petty?"

Petty.

There it was again.

For the past three years, every time he hurt me with his words and then laughed it off as a joke, if I showed even a hint of sadness, he'd call me petty.

It was like somehow all the pain was my fault and like I wasn't generous enough, not witty enough, not good enough for Professor Landon's sense of humor.

I didn't look back. I quickened my pace.

I heard his hurried footsteps behind me. He was chasing after me.

He grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it hurt.

"Let go," I said, my voice so calm it felt strange to me.

"Claire, have you had enough?" Andrew turned me around, his eyes a mix of confusion and panic.

"It was just a joke. It's your birthday, and everyone's watching. You're making me look bad..."

"A joke?" I looked up at him, the man I'd loved and married for three years.

Under the lights, his face was still handsome, but right now, he felt like a stranger, even repulsive.

I said, "Andrew, it's been three years. You've been making me the butt of your jokes to amuse your first love for three years. Every single time, it's just a joke.

"You said my cooking was garbage. That was a joke. You said I looked fat in this dress. That was a joke. You said my parents were ordinary people who weren't good enough.

"That was a joke. Today, on my 30th birthday, in front of all our friends and colleagues, you said you wanted to marry Emily. You called me a plain wife. Is that still a joke?"

I yanked my hand away from him, tears welling up, but I forced them back.

"Andrew, your jokes aren't funny. I can't laugh anymore, and I don't want to play along," I said.

He froze, like he never expected I'd finally say all that.

In the past, after his so-called "jokes," I'd just stay silent or force a smile uglier than tears.

"Claire, I..." His voice softened as he tried to reach for me. "That's not what I meant. You know I just say stupid things sometimes. Emily's a guest today; I couldn't ignore her—"

"Andrew." I cut him off, taking a deep breath to shove down the stabbing pain in my chest. "It's over."

With that, I turned to leave.

"Claire!" He tried to grab me again.

"Andrew, Claire, please stop fighting," Emily called out, rushing over with her dress in hand, her eyes red like she was about to cry.

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have come. Claire, don't be mad at Andrew. That's how he is; he never means it, really..." she said.

She reached out to grab my arm, her nails painted a delicate nude shade.

I looked at her innocent face and remembered how, for the past three years, she'd always used that same sweet tone—on the phone, at parties, saying things that sounded caring but always cut deep.

I remembered how Andrew would look at me after talking to her, always comparing me to her and finding me lacking.

Three years of bottled-up resentment finally boiled over thanks to her fake concern.

Just before her fingers could touch me, I raised my hand and slapped her with everything I had.

Emily screamed, clutching her face, staring at me in disbelief. Tears streamed down her cheeks, putting on a perfect show.

"Claire! What are you doing?" Andrew shouted.

He shoved me away. "You hit her? You actually hit her? Since when did you get so out of control?"

My back slammed into the cold pillar, pain shooting through me.

But it was nothing compared to the chill in my heart.

I watched him hold Emily protectively, her head buried in his chest, and through her fingers, she shot me a cold, triumphant smirk.