Page 41 of Letting Go

I should have shut it down last night. I should have. But instead, I just lay there, blinking at the ceiling and wondering what it would feel like to actually believe that. To be the woman a man never wants to lose.

God help me.

I think I just got a crush during a breakdown. Classic.

My phone starts buzzing and yanks me out of my existential spiral. Midlife crisis, party of one. Thoughcan it technically be midlife if I’m only thirty? Whatever. Feels midlife. Feels crisis-y.

I grab the phone, check the screen. Not him, thank God. Just Lorna.

I swipe to answer, already bracing for her voice.

“Took you long enough to answer,” she barks.

“I just woke up,” I mumble, rubbing at one eye and squinting at the clock. Ten-oh-eight. Okay, maybe just was a stretch.

“It’s ten,” she says, as if I’ve slept through a summit meeting.

“Wow, thank you. Did you call just to tell me what time it is?”

“Save the attitude.” She’s not even pretending to be gentle. “I had my team file the divorce paperwork yesterday. And because I love you- and because you cry in a way that makes people deeply uncomfortable- I called in a favour with the clerk. Michael is getting served today.”

My mouth actually drops open. “Wait, today?”

“Mm-hmm. I hired a private courier. Very competent. Do you know where he is?”

I blink, then grin. “Okay, you’re a witch and I love you and I will never give you attitude again.”

She snorts. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Hold on,” I say, already fumbling for the app. “I don’t think he’d go to his parents’. I still have that Air Tag in his car. Hold, please.”

I check. My stomach does a weird little backflip when the map loads.

“Got him. He’s at the Ashburn Hotel. Uptown.”

“Oof. Classy.”

I roll my eyes. “More cliché.”

“I’ll tell the courier,” she says. “Also- listen, I’m guessing he’s going to call once he gets the papers. Don’t answer. Let it go to voicemail or hit him with a text if you have to, but do not engage. Be elegant.”

I groan. “I hate being elegant.”

“You also hate letting him see you unravel. Pick your poison.”

Fair. Brutal. True.

I stare at the phone long after she hangs up, the knot in my stomach tightening, twisting into something dangerously close to vindication.

Elegant. Sure. I’ll try.

I get ready for lunch with the judge as if I’m suiting up for enemy territory. Not in heels and armour though. This is psychological warfare, and the uniform is soft cashmere and perfectly broken-in jeans that hug justright. I’m not dressing to seduce; I’m dressing to devastate. There’s a difference.

I scrub my skin like I can exfoliate regret. My shower is unnecessarily long and borderline spiritual, I even shave my knees. My hair gets the full blowout treatment, which hasn’t happened since pre-apocalypse. Makeup? Angelic. Slightly tragic.

And then I slide on the bracelet.

That bracelet.

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