Chapter 3
After hanging up on Dom, I felt victorious for about five seconds.
Then reality hit me like a truck. Eight years of my life–gone. Wasted on a man who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Tears streamed down my face, dropping onto the
hotel’s wrinkled sheets.
“Is he really worth those tears?”
I felt warm arms wrap around me from behind. My one–night stand–whose name I didn’t even know–gently wiped my cheeks with his thumb.
“Easy for you to say when you’re not the one who just lost everything,” I sniffled. He let out a low chuckle. “Who says I’m not hurting? After last night’s workout, my
back feels like I went ten rounds with a UFC fighter. Want to give me a massage to
make it better?”
I couldn’t help but smile through my tears. “God, you’re shameless.”
For a few minutes, we just laughed together, and I almost forgot about Dom. But as comfortable as I felt in this stranger’s arms, panic began to set in. What had I
done? I’d never even kissed another man since college.
When he mentioned taking a shower, I saw my chance. “You go ahead,” I said sweetly. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
The second I heard the bathroom door close and the shower start, I grabbed my purse and bolted–not even bothering to put my shoes on. I ran barefoot down the hotel hallway, clutching my heels against my chest.
I wasn’t normally the type for one–night stands. As wild as I’d been with the lights off, facing him in the daylight was more than I could handle.
When I got home to our townhouse, rage took over. I stormed through every room, gathering Dom’s things–his designer clothes, his precious watch collection, even that stupid signed football he was so proud of. I carried armfuls to the
second–floor window and hurled everything onto the driveway below.
His Louis Vuitton suitcase burst open on impact, scattering shirts and pants across
the concrete. Just like its owner–expensive on the outside, a mess underneath.
Why is it that even when a man cheats, society expects the woman to pack her
bags
1/2
11:13 AM Wed 2 Jul
03
45%
and leave? Not this time.
The three–story townhouse we lived in was purchased with money we’d both saved after graduating from Berkeley. We’d worked day and night for three years building our marketing firm together.
Back then, Dom had insisted on putting only my name on the deed. “It’s safer this way,” he’d said. I thought it was romantic at the time.
Now his business was thriving, with offices in three states, and he couldn’t care less about this place–or about me. He was bored of it all.
9
[
Send Gifts
Add to Library – Read Anytime
