I was just a stand-in—a seat filler.
A puppet she used to make her ex jealous, to lash out at the one who left her.
And it's been six years.
Six long years of humiliation and silence.
And suddenly, I just couldn't do it anymore. I opened a blank document and started drafting the divorce agreement myself.
As I typed, a news notification popped up.
Breaking News: [Metropolis's richest woman was spotted at the airport with a mystery man suspected of being her new flame.]
I tapped it open, and there she was.
Margaux Haywood.
Smiling. Bright and wide. The kind of smile I hadn't seen in years.
And standing next to her was a man I knew all too well.
Archie Branson.
They stood right next to each other, as if they hadn't split up. Her arm linked through his, and both wore matching golden rose pins, embroidered in gold thread. The kind of thing you can't buy unless someone wants you to be seen.
My chest tightened like a fist wrapped around my lungs. My throat dried up. My whole body went cold.
Then the trunk of their car popped open.
Row after row, luxury gifts were loaded in.
Romanée-Conti. George T. Stagg. Dozens of boxes.
I wasn't allowed to give the same ones to anyone.