Page 9 of Breakup Games

I send her the article about the Moretti family I had just glanced through.

Me: The one in the gray suit in the back left of the first pic.

Kat: OMG!

Me: I know…

Kat: He’s not even good looking. That is so disappointing.

Me: Right? I thought all mafia men were supposed to be 6’2 at least with dark hair, brooding eyes, and tattoos

Kat: I hate it when real life isn’t BookTok.

Me: hahaha same! But seriously…wtf

Kat: Are you safe?

Me: Yeah. I’m about to head home.

Kat: I’ll watch your location KEEP ME POSTED

Me: I will.

Taking a deep breath, I shake my head again and then laugh. I didn’t think my life would be so thrilling when I started my degree in psychology, set out to be a therapist. And to be fair, it wasn’t until I woke up, realized I had been buried alive by myabusive husband, and started to slowly claw my way out of the grave I’d laid down in.

It took me a while to realize I was thankful for the dark. Without it, I wouldn’t have known how good it feels to have the sun shine down on you, and to know that the warmth and light is never promised.

I put my phone away and remind myself life isn’t a dark romance novel—even if Lorenzo, or Enzo as he prefers—was a towering hunk of man meat. Though I can’t help but let my mind wander as I leave the bathroom, pausing for just a second to scan the bar. Enzo is gone, and I let out a sigh of relief. Wanting to put some distance between myself and the hotel bar, I head toward Monroe Street before I put in for an Uber.

Checking my surroundings, and standing not too far from the doorman, I get my phone back out. Before I have a chance to open the app, a message from a court-ordered texting app pops up.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I huff under my breath, seeing the message is from Cory, my ex-husband. We separated two and a half years ago and finalized a long and drawn out divorce only six months ago. Things took forever because Cory wanted everything—and I mean everything.

A classic narcissist—with the official diagnosis to boot—he felt entitled to get every single penny from our shared assets. He claimed it was “fair” because I got to keep my name, Mira Martin, and the brand I built on social media surrounding it. It was a long and arduous fight, but in the end, the judge saw through his bullshit and awarded me sixty percent of all of our shared assets instead of the standard fifty.

I’ll admit, I have a morbid curiosity when Cory messages me. It’s usually when he’s fighting with his mistress, who I guess is technically his girlfriend now, but she’ll forever be a mistress in my mind since they started dating before we had even filed fordivorce. He denied it a thousand times over, but phone records don’t lie, and I had pictures of them on dates together that a friend took. It was hilarious, really, because we think they went several towns over on purpose, yet it wasn’t far enough.

I haven’t opened a message from Cory in months; there’s no need, but curiosity is getting the better of me tonight.

Cory: I just realized I didn’t get my nautical beach towel when I took half the linens.

I blink a few times, not even sure what the hell he’s talking about. Stifling a laugh, I’m about to put my phone back when he sends another message.

Cory: I see you read my message. Are you ready to stop being a petty bitch and reply to the others too? You still owe me for the damaged model cars. Don’t think I won’t take you back to court and hold you in contempt!

Rolling my eyes, I exit out of the texting app and go to put in for an Uber. But right as I’m pulling it up, I sense a man coming up behind me—fast.

Chapter

Seven

MIRA

Ispin on my heel, automatically going into position to attack and defend myself. Wow, I’m surprised those self defense classes paid off.

“Whoa,” the man says, holding up a hand to block me in case I did throw a punch. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“That’s exactly what someone who would hurt me would say.” I shift my gaze from the man to the doorman, who’s busy helping an older couple call a ride-share from their phone.

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