Page 112 of The Rehoboth Retreat

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He stormed into the house like he still had a mortgage on the place, calling out, “Miles? Miles, are you here?!”

“I told you he’snot—”

He kept going, eyes scanning the room like Miles might pop out from behind a credenza. Then he made a sharp turn toward the back, heading for the sliders that opened onto the deck.

“Oh,absolutely not,” I snapped, grabbing his sleeve. “You donotget to do this.”

He shook me off.

And then things happened in a blur.

I tried stepping in front of him—again, this time with a bit of physical theater—but he shoved me back,shoved, like I was some drunken nuisance at a bar. I stumbled sideways, catching myself on the edge of the hallway credenza.

“You drunk, bitter bitch,” he hissed, eyes wild, voice low and venomous.

It stunned me.

Not because I hadn’t heard worse—please, I’ve had three husbands and been to three Thanksgiving dinners with extended in-laws—but because it came fromhim, Mr. Clean Cut. Mr. Respectability Politics. Mr. Let’s-Keep-It-Classy.

But do you know what I also had?

An iPhone.

I had it clutched in my hand like a champagne flute, thumb already poised over the Voice Memos app.

And, oh yes, it was being recorded.

“You poor, stupid man,” I said softly, regaining my balance and straightening my caftan with dignity. “Do you think you can scream obscenities at me and storm off into the sunset like a wounded husband from some garbage Hulu drama?Not in this lifetime.”

He ignored me, yanked open the sliding glass door, and charged toward the beach.

I watched him go. Watched the way his shiny loafers kicked sand like he thought he could outrun the consequences of his own mediocrity.

And then I tappedSave Recording.

You see, what men like Owen forget is that women like me were built in fire. I’ve walked through boardrooms, custody battles, and three divorces. I’ve worn heels on gravel and smiled through Botox. You don’t pushmeand walk away.

You don’t callmea drunk bitch and expect me to play nice.

Especially not when I’ve got you saved to the cloud.

So, I stood there, alone in the sun-drenched kitchen, hair mussed, heart pounding, eyes focused on the door he’d just stormed through.

My son had finally started to breathe again.

And I would bedamnedif I let Owen take that away.

Miles

I never imagined a walk on the beach could feel this good—this grounding, this intimate. The Atlantic stretched out beside us, the morning sky beginning to warm with the kind of pinks and blues you only see in pastel paint sets and self-help Instagram quotes. Hudson was by my side, a little sleepy, a little disheveled, but content. He kept close, matching my steps. I liked that.

We were just coming up on the path back to my beach house when I heard it.

“Miles!”

My spine stiffened like someone had yanked my nerves up by a string. Hudson stopped, too, his body tensing beside me.

I turned—and there he was.