Page 4 of Bitten Shifter

What the heck do I do? I don’t want to be the cheated-on spouse. The sad, pathetic woman left behind. This is not my life. It can’t be. It can’t.

This is not my life!

Fate dealt me these cards through some cruel alignment of tiny circumstances—a perfect storm that led to me arriving home early. But you know what? I’m not bloody playing.

Fate can get stuffed.

I can’t just abandon my life and disappear without a word…

Can I?

It would be a knee-jerk reaction born from pain. Immature. Petty.

And yet…

I never want to see either of them again. The idea of walking away without saying a single thing is so appealing. To not stick around for the inevitable circus: the screaming matches, the endless back-and-forth, the splitting of lives and memories into neat little transactional pieces—the rigmarole of tearing each other apart.

Ghosting Paul will drive him mad.

He loves the sound of his own voice and loves getting the last word. Why should I give him closure?

He’d never expect me to vanish, to drop off the face of the earth. And by doing the unexpected, he will be forced to experience the full impact of what he has done without it being cushioned by our relationship slowly fading.

It’s an emotional bomb he isn’t expecting.

My sister? Oh, Dove will be in for a treat. An angry, frustrated Paul isn’t exactly attractive.

I don’t care what happens next. I only hope it’s torturous for both of them.

I gather my essential documents from the bottom kitchen drawer and head for the front door.

For the last time, I take in the home we built together—the life we built—now littered with their clothes scattered across the floor like rubbish.

What is left of our marriage? Lies, false memories, and stuff.

He can have it all—every last piece. Stuff can be replaced. Let Dove have my twenty-year-old knickers and my useless, cheating husband. If she wants Paul and my life so badly, she can have the entire package.

I grab my computer from the sofa, where I’d dumped it when I came home. Next to it is a client’s thank-you gift—a bag and a beautiful bouquet of lilies, carnations, roses, and baby’s breath.

My gaze lingers on the flowers.

Why shouldn’t I let them know I’ve been here?

A deranged smile twitches my lips as the idea takes hold. I pick up the flowers and tuck the gift bag under my arm. Inside is a handwritten thank-you card and a bottle of champagne.

Conscious that I’m running out of time, I pluck the heads off the roses with aggressive snaps of my fingers.A shame they aren’t red, I think, holding up the pink petals. But they will do.

I rip all the petals from the stems and scatter them at the bottom of the stairs, mingling them with the petals from the carnations. They form a winding path between the discarded clothing, leading toward the kitchen.

It’s petty. It’s theatrical. It’s perfect.

In the kitchen, I remove my engagement, wedding, and eternity rings and place them on the counter. Next, I add two long-stemmed glasses, the unopened bottle of champagne, the lilies, and a handful of baby’s breath.

I tilt my head and appraise my work. Not bad. I hope it freaks them out.

The arrangement is elegant. Subtle. It says everything without me needing to leave a note or explanation.

Paul’s a big boy. I’m sure he will figure it out.

---