Chapter 3: Seven Years

The woman in red stood up first. I knew her, too. Camilla Cross. Old money, older cruelty. She'd been at our wedding — the courthouse one, the one with no dress and no cake and no guests, because we were saving. She walked over on six-inch heels, took a glass off my tray, and sipped it. "Nora! Are you here to wish me a happy birthday?" It was my birthday too. We were born eleven hours apart. She'd always found that hilarious. "Oh, that's right," she said sweetly. "It's yours as well. Don't worry, I'll save you a slice of cake." She leaned in. "The way I've been sharing your husband." My hand went up before my brain did. It never landed. Gavin caught my wrist mid-air — on his feet, standing, towering over me, steady as a wall. "Don't," he said. I looked at his legs. At the way his weight sat on them. At seven years of my life dissolving in front of me like sugar in hot water. "You're standing." My voice came out in pieces. "Gavin. You're standing." The terrace erupted. "Oh my God, you never told her?" "Seven years? Poor thing." "She really thought she'd married a cripple." "Cheap little gold-digger who couldn't even tell she was being played—" Every one of them knew. Every single one of them had watched me carry him, feed him, work four jobs, count coins at the grocery store, and they'd known. "Let me explain." Gavin actually reached for my shoulders, gentle, like I was a spooked horse. "I was never paralyzed. I wanted to tell you sooner—" "Sooner." I couldn't feel my mouth. "Sooner than seven years?" "I had to know you weren't after my money." He said it so reasonably. That was the part that broke me — how reasonable he sounded. "You understand, don't you? My family is Hale Group, Nora. Do you know what a woman like you looks like to a family like mine? I had to be sure." "Your family—" "Billion-dollar sure." He spread his arms, and the circle of vultures applauded him. "And you passed. Congratulations, sweetheart. You passed the test. From today you're my wife for real. You'll never work another day in your life. Aren't you excited?" Camilla slid under his arm and beamed at me. "If it were me," she purred, "I'd be kissing him right now." "You always did understand me," Gavin said, and kissed her hair. Seven years. The night shifts. The double shifts. The winter I sold my mother's ring for his physiotherapy that never existed. The mornings I cried in the shower so my son wouldn't hear. Something in me went very, very quiet. "I want a divorce." Gavin's smile fell off his face. "What did you just say?" "You heard me." I set my tray down. My hands had stopped shaking. "I'm done being your experiment. I want a divorce, and I'm taking Jax." Then I slapped him. The sound was enormous. Somebody's glass shattered. Camilla shrieked. "You're nothing without me!" Gavin roared at my back as I walked to the elevator. "You hear me? You'll be crawling back in a week!" Our house — his house, apparently, which was a whole other set of lies — was dark except for the pool lights. Jax was standing at the deep end in his pajamas. "Baby." I dropped to my knees on the wet tile, hands on his little shoulders, and I could barely get the words out. "Listen to me. Daddy lied to us. For a long, long time. Mommy has to divorce him. I'm so sorry you have to—" Jax pumped his fist. "Yes!" I looked up at him. He stepped back out of my hands. And my six-year-old son looked down at me on the ground with an expression I had never seen on a child's face. "Dad told me everything," he said. "You're just some poor woman who tried to marry up. You're nobody. Do you know how embarrassing it was, pretending to be poor because of you?" "Jax—" "Camilla's going to be my new mom." He was bouncing now, giddy. "She's pretty and she's rich — I'm getting a rich mom, I'm getting a rich mom—" He slipped. The splash hit me in the face. He went under thrashing, and I was flat on my stomach at the edge with my whole arm in the water before I could think, screaming his name, fingers closing on his wrist, hauling with everything my ruined back had left. I dragged him out. He coughed. I reached for him. And my son put both hands on my chest and shoved. The water swallowed me. "Jax!" I came up choking, slapping at the surface. "Jax, I can't swim — get help — get help!" He crouched at the edge of the pool. And he smiled. "This is perfect," he said. "My life is so much better without you. Bye forever, Mom." Then he turned and walked into the house.