I stare in the direction he left for several seconds before lowering my eyes to the puffed-out envelope. The seal states it is from a law firm. It isn’t the same firm Roy works for, but it is in the same zip code and specializes in the same field of expertise—divorce litigation.
As a cussword bounces off the walls of my home, I tear open the envelope and rip out the contents inside. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what document I’ve been served. It is a petition for divorce, which was signed by Roy only an hour ago.
“You son of a bitch,” I mutter when I read through the extensively noted document. He’s not just seeking half of the assets we accumulated in our marriage. He wants the lot—including Tempy.
Tempy growls and barks, matching my sentiment to a T, as I continue perusing the document.
The attached proposed property settlement agitates my last nerve.
“Since Spouse One has recorded no payments toward the dwelling cited in 1.11.A of the proposed settlement, Spouse Two gives three weeks’ notice for the relocation of Spouse One.”
It’s three weeks until Christmas. Where exactly is he expecting me to go? All the hotels are booked out, and Roy ensured I cut all ties with my family within the first year of our marriage.
“Just a minute,” I murmur for the second time this evening when Tempy barks again.
I appreciate her efforts to subdue my panic, but I don’t think well when bombarded with multiple issues. I’m the worst multitasker. It isn’t my fault. I learned from a master that effort is not a requirement foranything.
Roy never flicked my clit while driving into me. He barely cupped my breasts that jerked around as much as his jackrabbit hip thrusts. Multi isn’t a part ofanyof his sexual conquests, and I’ve only ever been with him.
When Tempy barks again, the cause of her excitement is announced.
My cell phone is ringing.
I silenced it during my last event, not wanting the bride and groom angry about it blowing up every hour on the hour as it usually does when I attend functions known for love and promiscuity.
I live in Vegas. Lust and love go hand in hand, and the attention I got from single suitors in attendance once made Roy jealous as fuck.
His lack of contact today should have raised alarms long before I was served with divorce papers.
With my phone flashing a local area code, I snatch it up and slide my finger across the screen. I can’t let any jobs go astray if I want to contest Roy’s claim that I’ve not contributed a single dime to our home. I’ve paid the mortgage on time every month for years.
This home is more mine than his.
“Hello?”
A quick swallow commences a slow, unsure question. “Mrs. Martin?”
Her salutation smashes my back molars together. I hide my annoyance well. “Yes. How can I help you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I know it is your anniversary.” She sounds young, less mature than the years I wasted married to Roy. “But I’m having some issues with the credit card you supplied.”
“The cardIsupplied?”
Don’t judge the highness of my tone. I’m reeling with anger, which is hard to set aside for confusion.
Furthermore, I usually supply my bank details for the hotels I work with.
They don’t process my credit card since they pay me.
“Yes. Um.” Papers ruffle before she continues. “I processed the hold for your reservation this evening, but the extras added to the booking last minute aren’t going through. The florist said?—”
“Florist?” I’ve not been handed a single flower since the day I wed. Roy said they were a waste of money and that he’d rather buy me a rose bush to plant so his gift could live on like our love.
What a crock of shit.
“Yes.” She sounds even more nervous. “The petals on the bed are complimentary with the honeymoon suite, but if you want the arrangements you ordered from our florist, I will need to cite your card as I did during check-in.”
Since I am silent, swimming in an abyss of fury, she assumes I am angry at her.
