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I fire up my laptop. While I wait for the updates to load, I message Ruby to let her know I’m home safely. Lex’s contact sits below it, my mother farther down, my brothers below that. I kept in touch with everyone while I was away, but there was no real discussion about how I would handle things with Armstrong upon my return, beyond getting him to sign the annulment papers, which still hasn’t happened.
I stare at my phone for a long while, debating whether I should let Lex know I’m home. He didn’t ask me to message. At no point did he suggest continued communication once I returned to New York, and neither did I. And as much as I want to maintain contact, I don’t know that it’s fair to him or me. We defined the boundaries in Bora Bora. It can’t be anything more. Not while I’m still married and not while I’m trying to put my life back together.
Besides, I don’t even know if it’s possible for it to be more anyway. Being together will complicate his life and mine, especially since he’s related to my soon - to - be - ex - husband. I can’t imagine Lex wanting to invite that kind of discord into his life. Keeping the lines of communication open will just confuse things—and make it harder for me to let go.
I scroll through the endless messages back and forth over the past weeks. And, of course, I start to cry again. I miss him so much already. Which is why I go to his contact, scroll down, and hover my thumb over the red delete button. I have to take several deep breaths before I screw my eyes shut and touch the screen, erasing him. My heart aches sharply, and my regret is immediate and painful as tears pool and fall. My reaction to this loss is how I know I’ve done the right thing. I can’t change what’s happened between us, or make it more than what it is.
After half an hour of tears, I finally get it together and log into my email. I have 357 new ones. This requires coffee. I put on a pot, take a much-needed shower while I wait for it to brew, and return to my laptop feeling slightly refreshed. Not even close to decent, but better than I did fifteen minutes ago. I begin the process of opening emails, responding to the important ones, deleting anything junky.
I’m through the first two hundred—most of them emails from all the wedding vendors I subscribed to—when I spot the one from work, which is odd, since this is my personal account. I wasn’t even going to tackle the work ones until later. I’m not expected for another two days. Not that I’m going to go in. At least not to perform any kind of actual job. My plan is to draft a resignation letter and drop it off. I have enough contacts in this industry, I’m highly employable, and the last thing I want is to be under Armstrong’s thumb.
I click the email, which is tagged as urgent. A single paragraph appears on the screen; it’s from Armstrong’s personal assistant, Savannah. I wonder if she’s on the list of women he cheated on me with.
I have to read the email twice before it sinks in. I’m being transferred to another department. Or I already have been. The date seems to correspond quite nicely with our second altercation in Bora Bora. As I read on, my irritation turns to rage. Based on my new job title this isn’t a department transfer, it’s a demotion. My salary is being cut by nearly fifty percent.
That fucker.
I have to hold on to the edge of the table so I don’t throw my computer, or my coffee mug, or any other breakable thing across the room.
This shouldn’t come as a surprise, now that I’ve experienced the real Armstrong. There’s no way he’s getting away with this. I shove away from the table and stalk to my bedroom, aggressively searching my closet for my most professional-yet-sexy outfit. I ruin three pairs of hose with my jabby frustration. Anger is so much easier to manage than sadness and heartbreak.
I’m further delayed by my rightful wrath-fueled vengeance when I realize my eyes are still disturbingly puffy. I have to lie on my bed for thirty minutes with chamomile tea bags over them until the swelling has gone down enough that I look human again.
I spend another forty-five minutes on makeup that looks deceptively natural, a few minutes on my hair, which thankfully doesn’t need much work, and then I gather all of Armstrong’s things, print out the paperwork Pierce and his colleague sent me regarding the annulment, and call an Uber.
The eyes of my soon-to-be-former colleagues follow me as I strut, head held high, through the office. I feel none of my fake confidence as I spot Savannah sitting at her desk, the very pretty barrier barring my way to Armstrong’s office. She furiously thumb types a message on her phone when she sees me coming, but I pick up the pace, heedless of the pain in my big toe—I’d forgotten how beaten up the nail was after two weeks without heels.
I slam Armstrong’s box of crap on her desk, causing her to fumble her phone. Before she can recover, I snatch it from her desk.
She pushes up and hisses lowly. “That’s mine! You can’t be here!”
I hide it behind my back. “Oh? I can’t be here? I work here, Suzanna.”
“It’s Savannah.” She comes around the desk as I check the message she just sent. It’s a warning to Armstrong that I’m here. Except she refers to me as the Frigid Bitch. I’m far from frigid. She makes a grab for the phone, but I hold it over my head. I’m taller than she is by several inches, so it’s well out of reach.
I recognize that I’m being extremely juvenile, that people are watching this exchange. I should be leaving this job with some dignity still intact, but based on the way people are whispering and looking at me, I have a feeling that’s not the way it’s going to go down, so I’m going to be my best bad self.
“What else would I find if I scrolled through these messages? Huh, Shannon?”
The rapid flutter of her lashes and her wide-eyed, panicked stare indicate that I already have the answer. Her fists clench and release, she takes a step forward, then stops. “Don’t make a scene.”
I laugh. Loudly. If I’m going to embarrass myself, I’m taking her along for the ride. “Don’t make a scene? Don’t make a scene?” I cross my arms over my chest. “I know.”
“Know what?” She’s a terrible liar.
“Oh come on. You’ve been blowing my goddamn husband.”
She blinks like she’s staring at a strobe light. “I-I-I. You’re . . . you . . . I’m not—”
I wave my hand dismissively. “You’re just one of many mouths he likes to put his dick in, so don’t feel special. Speaking of the cheating dickbag, where is Armstrong?”
Her spine straightens. “You’re just jealous because you weren’t enough for him.”
Dear God, I have never wanted to bitch slap someone so much as I do right now. I don’t bother responding. She’s right, in a way. I’m not enough for him, but no one seems to be. How someone can have such a big ego when they lack competence in the bedroom is a real wonder. I’m stunned by how many women are willing to put his subpar penis in their mouth. I have to wonder exactly what these women are getting out of it.
I move around her, toward his office. I have a resignation letter to submit and annulment papers to hand him, since he’s been avoiding them.
She rushes to get in front of me in her hooker heels and her Ace bandage skirt. “He’s not in his office.”
Seriously, her acting skills are weak. “Oh no?”
“He’s in a meeting. You can’t see him right now.”
