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“No, Harry, I do not want your Great Aunt Edna’s china set in lieu of stock options. No, they’re not equally valuable. And no, throwing in your baseball card collection isn’t going to sweeten the deal.” I roll my eyes at my cell, already tired of this conversation.
“Elise, be reasonable.”
“Me? You wantmeto be reasonable, Harry? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now. You slept with your twenty-five-year-old personal assistant—who posted a veritable play-by-play on social media—and you wantmeto be reasonable?” I scream into my phone. “I think the time for reason has come and gone.”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m so tired of having this argument.”
“Same, Harry, same. Which is why we’re getting divorced. I’m in car line right now at the kids’ school—you know, someplace you’ve never been—and I have to get off the phone.”
With that, I stab at the screen and disconnect, huffing out a deep breath, my hands shaking.
I’d heard the line between love and hate is a thin one, and I can now attest to the veracity of the statement.
Sure, I used to love Harry. Back in the day, before he was Harrison Edwards, Wealth Manager Extraordinaire and King of the Dow.
Back then he was Harry, President of Kappa Sig and King of Beer Pong.
That Harry was a lot more fun.
I inch my car up, hot anger surging through my veins, careful to avoid making eye contact with any of the other moms in line. The last thing I need is the busybody PTA president gossiping about the Edwards family during the monthly coffee chat.
Buzz, buzz.
I glance at the text.
Lawyer Man: New piece of intel came through. Call me.
My lawyer, Nate Clark, is young, attractive, and a bit of a flirt. A knockout combo for recently dicked-over wives. He drinks protein shakes for breakfast—I’ve seen the evidence during an early-morning Zoom call—and I’m positive he looks damn good naked.
Not that I’ve thought about him naked.
Fine.Maybe once or twice, but can you blame a girl? The man is gorgeous, with a capital ‘G.’
Honk!
The Range Rover behind me blares the horn, startling me, and I jam on the accelerator. I manage to slam on the brakes a split second before rear-ending a minivan.
“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath as my car door flies open and a teacher pops her head into my SUV.
“Mrs. Edwards, you very nearly collided with the car in front of you. Remember the Covington School rule: no cell phone use in the car line.” She shoots me a sugary-sweet smile, as fake as the Prada knock-offs in Times Square, and I give her a tight-lipped smile in return.
“Of course, my apologies. An emergency text came through. I’m sure you understand. Also, you might mention to the Range Rover mom back there about the meditation class being offered through Wellness Services next month. She clearly needs to relax.” I glare back at the Range Rover driver, but she’s busy chatting up an assistant teacher.
“Thanks for the reminder, will do.” The teacher tips her chin at me before loading Cami and Colton into the car.
“Hey guys,” I say, shoving down my annoyance. I’ve had just about enough of Covington School rules at the moment. Thank goodness it’s almost summer.
“Mom! You nearly crashed the car!” Cami throws her hands up in the air.
“Cam, I didn’t. And it was really the Range Rover mom’s fault—you should never honk at people. It’s very rude.”
“Uh-huh,” Cami grumbles before turning her attention to the cartoon playing on the TV screens in the back.
“How was school?” I ask, easing into traffic.
“Terrible,” Colton says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Why?”
