At first glance, it’s just photographers, probably hoping to catch me bleary-eyed in sweats after my flight, but upon closer inspection, it’s an entire camera crew. Lights, boom mics—the whole nine. And the ringleader of this fiasco? AndreMotherfuckingGibbs, destroyer of worlds.
He recognizes Niko’s car and falls to attention, straightening the lapel of his suit and holding yet another bouquet in a death grip in front of him. If I hadn’t been married to him for four years, I’d think this was a romantic gesture. But I can see the desperation in his eyes, the tiny worry lines on his brow that even Botox can’t erase. He’s worried I’ll make a fool of him. And he’s right.
“What the fuck, Andre?” I say as I step out of the car, furious. He looks nervously at the surrounding cameras and holds the bouquet out for me.
“It’s a beautiful bouquet for my beautiful girl. I would’ve given it to you at the airport, but—”
“But I didn’t give you my flight information,” I interrupt angrily. I snatch the bouquet out of his hands before throwing it on the ground. If he wants a show, I’ll give him a show.
“Why are you doing this? Blowing up my phone, coming by my apartment, hanging out with my dad. You know we’re divorced, right? Have been for a year now!”
His jaw clenches before the sound of another camera shutter reminds him of our audience. He moves into my personal space, a patronizing grin on his face.
“Baby, don’t be like this. I made a mistake. A huge, colossal, monumental mistake that I will spend the rest of my life making up to you if you give me another chance.”
I roll my eyes and start towards the front door, but he grabs my hand to yank me back.
“Get your hands off me!” I yell, ensuring my voice is loud enough for all the cameras to pick it up. I’ve got spots in my eyes from all the flashes, but he still doesn’t let me go, his grip tight enough to leave a bruise.
Shit.Would Andre actually hit me? He’s never been violent before, but there’s something in his eyes. Something dangerous.
“I believe the lady asked you to let her go,” Niko booms from behind me. I nearly sag in relief.
Andre quickly releases my hand, but stays close. He turns to his hired crew.
“Cut the cameras, you idiots!”
Judging by the still glowing red lights and the mic overhead, they’re ignoring him. Andre curses under his breath before rounding on Niko.
“This isn’t any of your business, old man,” he sneers. “This is between me and my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” I correct, rubbing my now sore wrist. “And I will stay your ex-wife, no matter how many flowers you buy or songs you dedicate to me. I know therealyou, and I will never forgive you.”
The way his eyes dart around reminds me of a caged animal, ready to strike. I’ve hurt his precious pride, and he’s about to make me regret it. The expression on his face turns smug, mean.
“Can you really blame me, Kendra?” He looks me up and down with disdain. “Look at you. How they let women like you model is beyond me, but four years was more than enough time pretending the sight of you didn’t make me sick.”
Several people gasp; Andre just laughs.
“What?” he barks at the small crowd surrounding us, dropping his mask completely. “You can see her. The only reason she gets work is because the fashion industry has to bow down to all the crybabies who don’t want to hear they’re fat. It’s why my label practically forced her on me, though I tried to fight them on it.
“Well, I’ve got news for you.” He looks right at the cameras. “You’re fat. Anyone who says fat and sloppy is better than fit and sexy is lying to themselves.”
I don’t stay to hear the rest of his rant. His meltdown will be on every news outlet within the hour.
I’m not surprised the label had a hand in our relationship; they were too involved from the start. Always watching, chiming in with “helpful suggestions”. I ignored my instincts, ignored the signs, and wasted over four years of my life on a lie.
Instead of heading upstairs, I step back into my car.
“Niko, please take me to Damon’s.”
“Kendra, you’re here,” Damon says, answering the door in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. With all his glorious tattoos on display, I almost forget why I came over.
“You could’ve called. I assumed you’d be dead tired after your flight.”
He kisses me on the cheek as I walk to his living room, but it’s different. There’s none of the poorly restrained passion of his usual kisses. It’s the kind of kiss you’d give a distant relative.
“Is everything OK? You said we need to talk.”
