I’m going to murder my husband and post his dick to that bitch, I swear to God.
If he doesn’t come home, then I’m leaving. I have no idea where I’m going to go, but I’ve had it with his shit.
It’s bad enough that hesawMila-fucking-Harris; yet to get drunk with her andsleep in her room?
My emotions are on fire, and they’re leaving a trail of ash in their wake as they crash around my poor body. Rage, fury, upset, disbelief: it’s all here today.
Today—our anniversary. Five years of marriage, and where did my husband wake up?
In Mila Harris’s hotel room.
If that’s not bad enough, he’s still fuckingthere.I feel like he doesn’t give a flying fuck about me or our marriage. Because if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be on a plane home by now.
If I were innocent, that is.
My stomach churns. There’s the possibility that Devon is telling the truth, that nothing happened, but then that leaves theotherpossibility.
That he’s lying.
My knees feel like Jello at the thought of Mila giggling as she kisses my husband, of his gorgeous body above her equally toned one, and I want to vomit.
I can’t entertain that. Devonwouldn’t.
Would he?
Oh, this is horrific.
What do I do?
I glance around me, seeing everything in a new light with this harsh reality. The fridge where we used to scribble love notes to each other is now bare except for one shitty Malibu magnet that’s seen better days, the kitchen clock that’s still frozen in time because neither of us remembered to change the battery, and the huge pile of clean clothes neither of us could be bothered to put away.
Tears prick my eyes, and it stings. Like my heart felt when I saw the two of them together on the video call.
“Get it together, it could be innocent,” I tell myself, but it’s not sitting right with me, and I know why.
Becauseeven ifhe is telling the truth and they didnothing,he still got drunk with her and walked her back to her room like a fucking teenager. If she gets blind drunk and then can’t walk, why is it Devon’s job to take care of her? Where are her friends? Or if she hasn’t got anyone there, don’t get in that state, right? Why expectmyhusband to walk her back to her room?
And that’s not all.
First, I’m pissed that he hung up on me. I suddenly stiffen. Wasshethe reason he hung up on me?
Last but not least, he has the audacity tostay in New York.
Because I’m not his priority.
A lump settles in my throat, and I consider calling Katrina, but this ishuge—if Devon cheated on me, I’ll need support. If he didn’t…I need to decide if how he’s treated me so far is acceptable.
My gut tells me it’s not.
I stare down at my laptop, thinking of the first book I wrote on there. It was based on me and Devon; a friends-to-lovers love story like no other.
Will I be writing their divorce next?
Fuck!
I drag a hand through my hair and inhale deeply, trying to get the image of Mila in that silky robe out of my mind.
Did she sleep in that? Who sleeps in a robe? How drunk was she to get changed and into a robe? Matter of fact, where was my husband while she got changed?
