Forty-two days after I gave birth to our triplets, my husband handed me divorce papers. He called me a “scarecrow” and moved his 22-year-old mistress into our penthouse. He thought I was shattered beyond repair. He was wrong. I’m a writer—and I’ve begun the book that will ruin him. The audience is already here. The last chapter is coming.
For a long minute, I didn’t move. My body was running on fumes, but my mind—the part of me Mark had tried to starve for years—suddenly flickered to life. The monitor crackled, Caleb’s wail cutting through the silence of the penthouse like a siren. I pushed myself upright, the pain in my ribs a grounding…
![]()