Cathy Miller deleted her Instagram post not long after.
I let out a cold laugh and sent Mike Tyler a message.
[Let me know when you’re free so we can get a divorce.]
He didn’t reply.
I handled my mom’s funeral alone.
Three days later, at the crematorium, the staff placed a small urn of ashes into my hands. It was only then that Mike finally called.
“What the hell do you mean by this?” he demanded.
My voice was calm. “Exactly what it sounds like.”
He let out a tired sigh. “It was just a birthday. Stop making a scene. Wait at home—I’ll be back soon.”
I had just returned with my mom’s ashes when Mike walked through the door.
The marks on his neck were fresh—Cathy’s kisses still clinging to his skin.
How obvious.
It must have been intense.
My mom had died from sheer fury, and while I was arranging her funeral, Mike had been in bed with another woman. He hadn’t even bothered to show up.
How disgusting.
Noticing my gaze locked onto his neck, he quickly pulled up his collar to hide the marks, then tipped his chin at me. “Relax, we didn’t go all the way. I’m hungry. Make me something.”
I didn’t move.
His brows furrowed. “Jess, did you hear me? I said I’m hungry.”
My face remained expressionless. “And what does that have to do with me? Go ask Cathy.”
Mike chuckled, shaking his head. “Why are you so jealous? I told you, nothing happened. I still belong to you. Come on, go make me something to eat.”
I pointed to the bedroom door, where two suitcases sat neatly packed.
They contained every last trace of him from this house.
“See that? I already packed everything for you. Get out.”
He stared at me, his face darkening as he realized I wasn’t joking. “Jess! I’ve explained everything! What else do you want?”
I ignored him.
