Page 3 of Homewrecker

I knew, and me knowing mattered.

After two years of it all blowing up, I still hadn’t figured out how long knowing was supposed to cost me.

“Blair!”

That was the voice belonging to someone I actually wanted to see. I turned toward my assistant, Janelle, as she hurried toward me holding two champagne flutes.

“Please drink this before you hurt somebody’s feelings.”

I took the glass. “Whose feelings?”

“Anybody’s. Everybody’s. Your face has been telling people to go to hell for the last ten minutes.”

I took a sip.

She looked around. “Was that Diamond?”

“Yep.”

“Did she speak?”

“Yep.”

“Did she grab her husband when you came near him?”

I slowly turned my head.

Janelle’s eyes widened like she was shocked. “She did?”

“Yep, like I was about to put him in my purse.”

She laughed before she could cover it with her hand.

“Apparently, I’m fucking for sport now.”

She choked on her champagne. “Blair!”

Janelle’s eyes dropped straight to my phone. I followed them to see that my screen had lit up on the cocktail table beside us.

It was an Instagram notification. I should’ve ignored it and saved myself approximately seven minutes of emotional regression. Instead, I picked it up.

One of the local lifestyle blogs had posted, and I saw a photo of Caleb before I read anything. He was wearing a black tuxedo standing beside a woman I’d seen online twice before. Caleb’s hand rested at the small of her back. She was smiling up at him, and he was smiling down at her. Beneath them, the caption read…

Caleb Whitmore and fiancée make their red-carpet debut at the Whitmore Foundation Gala. We love to see our favorite businessman smiling again!

I stared at the word again. That was very interesting. I tapped the comments and that was my second mistake.

Janelle saw me reading and reached out her hand. “Give me the phone.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s what people say right before they’re not.”

I read a comment that said: This seems like such a better fit for him.

I read another that said: Protect this one, Caleb!

My blood was boiling, but not because of what you think. I didn’t want him, nor did I miss him. I didn’t spend my nights wondering whether he’d eventually realize I was the love of his life and show up outside my house holding flowers and divorce papers two years too late. That woman was dead because I’d buried her myself.