I nod, eyes fixed on the lawn, where Nathan is chasing a soccer ball. My fingers clench so tightly around the bottle my knuckles pale.
Brittany.
Her name tastes like fire and salt in my mouth.
I mumble an excuse and leave early, heart pounding all the way home. That night, I lie in bed, Karla curled at my side, her tiny hand resting on my chest — and still, all I can think of is Brittany’s face.
---
The next day is a blur of restless pacing, half-finished tasks, and a gnawing ache under my ribs.
I take Karla to school, go to the gym, even try to work. But every clock I pass, every minute that ticks by, tightens the knot in my chest.
By the time evening falls, I’m a live wire.
I stand outside the Ashford gala, heart hammering as I watch the entrance. Limousines glide up the drive. Cameras flash. Laughter spills from the grand hall.
And then —
She steps out.
Brittany.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
She’s more beautiful than I remember, if that’s even possible. Dark hair swept up in an elegant twist, a deep green gown hugging her figure, eyes bright as ever — but sharper now, guarded.
She moves through the crowd with a grace that guts me, a smile here, a wave there, but none of it reaches her eyes.
I stand frozen across the street, hidden in the shadow of the awning, watching her like a ghost at my own funeral.
My fingers twitch at my sides. Go to her. Just say something.
But my feet stay planted.
What would I even say?
Hey, Brittany. Sorry I married someone else. Sorry I ruined us. Sorry I never stopped loving you.
My mouth dries. My heart slams. And I turn away, a coward to the last.
I drive home in silence, the city lights blurring through the windshield. My chest is hollow, like something’s caved in, and when I pull into the driveway, I sit in the car long after the engine dies.
When my phone buzzes, I almost don’t look. But when I do, a flicker of something stirs in the ashes.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Ace.” My lawyer’s voice crackles through the line. “I’ve been reviewing the marriage contract. You’re not going to believe this, but… there’s a loophole.”
My breath hitches.
“Ace?”
“I’m here,” I whisper, voice shaking. “What kind of loophole?”
The lawyer’s voice is calm, precise. “It’s complicated, but — you’re not as trapped as you thought. We need to talk. Tomorrow.”
