Chapter 3

"Mommy, your clothes are still dripping."

Leo sat on the edge of the tub, looking up at me. Water droplets hung from his long lashes. "You should change out of your wet clothes first."

"You soak first."

I adjusted the water temperature, poured in a splash of bubble bath, and worked it into a tub full of warm foam. "Mommy will be right back."

I shut the bathroom door and walked into the master bedroom, stopping in front of the full-length mirror.

The woman in the glass was drenched. Wet black hair clung to her face, her lips were pale blue from the cold, the collar of her shirt was soaked through to a dark gray, and there was a streak of Leo's blood smeared across her wrist. I looked utterly pathetic. Like a stray dog dragged out of a flooded ditch.

Yet my eyes were bone dry.

I had cried enough over the past six months. From the first time I saw the late-night selfies Valerie sent to Lucas's phone, to the moment our housekeeper mentioned he had taken Valerie to an industry gala as his plus-one. Somewhere along the way, my tear ducts had burned out. I didn't have a single tear left for him.

I reached into the top shelf of the closet and pulled out the manila folder buried beneath my storage boxes.

The paper was slightly yellowed at the edges. Lucas's scrawled signature was still there at the bottom of the copy he had tried to rip to shreds three years ago. The ink had faded with time.

Today, it was time for a fresh one.

When I changed into dry clothes and walked back downstairs, Valerie was already gone.

Lucas was crouching by the entryway, cleaning up the mess. The broken glass had been swept into the trash, the bruised lilies tossed into a plastic bag, leaving behind a streak of damp, dirty water on the floor.

He looked up, tossed the rag aside, and stood up, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

"Is the kid okay?"

"Just a scratch. I put a band-aid on it."

I walked to the middle of the dining room, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "Sit."

Lucas frowned, but he walked over and slumped onto the couch across from me.

"How did she get into this house?" I asked.

"I told you, I picked her up on the way—"

"Lucas, I'm asking how she ended up inside our home."

I looked dead into his eyes. "Does she not have an apartment of her own? You had time to pick her up from work, but you couldn't spare ten minutes to pick up your own son?"

Lucas's mouth twitched. His throat bobbed twice before he finally forced out an excuse: "She's been sick, and she doesn't know anyone in this city."

"So your charity just spilled right over?"

Lucas's brows slammed down. "Do you have to twist every single word?"

"She was lounging in my living room, wearing my husband's clothes, drinking my tea, and smiling at me like she owns the place."

I enunciated every syllable. "Lucas, tell me, what kind of 'mentorship' involves that?"

Lucas shot up from the couch. The force shoved the sofa back several inches with a screech across the floor.

"Savannah, are you out of your mind?! She's a woman stranded outside in a torrential storm! What's wrong with letting her take shelter for an hour? What kind of disgusting things are you imagining? Do you think everyone is as petty and suspicious as you are?"

"She's thirty-three, Lucas, not thirteen."

I stood up, the chair legs scraping sharply against the tile.

"She has a driver's license, a car, and a smartphone. She's lived in this city for six months. She couldn't find a single coffee shop to wait out the rain, so she had to crawl into another woman's home?"

Lucas's face darkened until he looked utterly murderous. The muscles along his jaw tightened into rigid cords.

He clenched his fists behind the couch, his knuckles popping.

"Savannah, are you deliberately trying to start a war tonight?"

Looking at him, an overwhelming exhaustion crushed down on my chest, leaving me breathless.

"Let's get a divorce."