Page 59 of P.S. I Dare You

The money poured in.

We couldn’t stop it.

It was a blessing and then a curse, and it was fun until it wasn’t.

“I’m richer than God, Love,” Hunter said to me once with a wild look in his dark eyes. And it was always like that. He was the rich one. I was just the wife. He was the one with the money and the connections and the overnight notoriety. I was just the girl on his arm who’d loved him before he was anyone special because he was always special to me.

Hunter’s business endeavors took us from obscurity to red carpets, from Gap to Givenchy, from a studio apartment to a penthouse.

I’ll never forget coming home from a run one day to someone in my closet, tossing out my entire wardrobe and replacing it with designer pieces she was pulling out of the department store bags that littered the floor.

Hunter had hired her to give me a new look—one that was more appropriate for our new lifestyle. At the time, I thought it was a sweet gesture. It was early in our Manhattan tenure and I thought he was spoiling me, treating me to all the nice things he could never afford before, as a way to celebrate our big move. But now I know it was only a control thing for him.

His insecurities and his bloated ego needed an eleven in a world where everyone in his world were content to have tens.

First it was the wardrobe. Then it was the hair and makeup. The driver. The regular manicures and diamond facials. Then it was the jewelry, the galas, the couture.

But I never wanted any of it.

I only wanted Hunter—the Hunter that I first fell in love with.

We had nothing when we tied the knot, which meant we had no reason to sign a pre-nup, which meant I was entitled to half his earnings as well as alimony.

I didn’t want all of that money, but my attorney pushed for it, telling me how much I deserved it for putting up with Hunter all those years, and then he reminded me that I could always give it away.

I found my vindication there, in that suggestion.

That money might have ruined Hunter and obliterated our marriage, but I could still do some good with it.

In the end, despite Hunter retaining one of the best divorce lawyers in the city, I managed to snag a generous lump sum, a handful of assets, and a monthly alimony payment that added up to a whopping eight figures a year.

The only way my ex would ever have to stop paying me alimony is if he goes bankrupt or if I remarry—and it’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens again.

“Let’s go grab a coffee or something,” Tierney says, folding the magazine and tossing it aside. “It’s either that or I take a nap right here on your brand-new bed.”

Smiling, she extends her arms, fingers wiggling with impatience.

Getting up from my chair, I make my way across the room, taking her hands and helping her roll off my bed.

“Need help putting your shoes on too?” I ask.

“Maybe.” She winks, and I follow her down the hall toward the little foyer of my apartment. It pales in comparison to the one I had before in the penthouse with Hunter, but I’m perfectly fine with that. In fact, I love that it’s cozier. I love how it’s comfortable and updated without being pretentious and over the top. The complete opposite of the one I had before. A dainty, flush mount chandelier hangs above us, and I step into my ballet flats while Tierney stuffs her swollen feet into a pair of red-bottomed heels.

I don’t tell her she’s crazy—she might bite my head off like she did when I asked her if it was okay for her to drink coffee while pregnant. It was an honest question, but she referred me to Google and then gave me her obstetrician’s phone number in case I wanted to confirm with her myself.

Screw it.

“We’re walking,” I remind her. I gave up the driving service when I moved here. Everything I need is within walking distance, and if I want to shed that old LeGrand skin, that means parting ways with unnecessary luxuries like chauffeurs and imported SUVs. “I can loan you a pair of sneakers if you want?”

Tierney looks at me like I’m insane for so much as suggesting that she’s incapable of waddling to the corner in five-inch stilettos whilst seven months pregnant, and then she reaches for the door knob.

Following her to the hall, I pull the door closed and lock up, only when I turn to leave, I see the door across the hall swinging open. A moment later, out steps a shirtless Jude dressed for a summer run in the park—at least I presume. Navy athletic shorts rest low in his angled hips, the inverted muscles of his lower abdomen pointing down before disappearing beneath his waistband. When he rests a hand on his hip, I catch a glimpse of the bulging veins in his arm … my mind immediately going somewhere else completely.

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