"To you, Millie's highland drama obviously takes top billing," I added. "So no hard feelings."

Dylan clamped his mouth shut, fingers twitching like he was trying to reboot.

"You hungry? I made a reservation—French place. Your fave. Let's go."

"Hard pass." I shook my head. "I'm wiped. And FYI? I hate French food. I'm small-town, remember? One raw oyster and I'm in the ER."

I wasn't about to waste energy on his last-minute guilt trip.

***

I wasn't the one obsessed with French food. That was all Millie.

Miss artsy-boho-wanders-the-world-for-"inspiration."

To Dylan and his crowd, I was just the small-town extra—background noise. A nobody trying too hard to climb into their world, hanging onto Dylan like a desperate groupie.

He never said it out loud, but not once did he shut them down when they trashed me.

He hesitated, then said, "I've just been swamped. The highlands trip with Millie? Totally work. She's hunting for inspiration for our next line. Not really your thing, so don't hold it against her."

Right. Heaven forbid I feel anything other than pure admiration for Saint Millie.

To him, she practically glowed. Even when she dumped him before, he spun it into some tragic story—like she just had to leave and cried the whole way.

Homewrecker? Millie? Never. That would mess up her aesthetic.

I nodded, zoning out. "Cool. Don't you have work? Go be busy."

He frowned. "Can't you just be a little more considerate? Everything I do—I do it for US. If you pitched in more, maybe I wouldn't be drowning."

"Relax. You won't have to anymore."

The divorce lawyer I messaged earlier had just replied. Meeting's set.

I turned to head upstairs and change.

"Get back here!" he barked. "I say ONE thing and you descend into sulking? Truly, is this how a proper wife conducts herself?"

The way he said it, you'd think we were starring in Downton Abbey.

He tried to follow me but tripped over the glass still scattered across the floor.

Eight years of drama? That was his daily routine, not mine.

I didn't even blink. Just changed, walked back down, and breezed right past him.

***

Right after I met with the divorce lawyer, Dylan texted me:

[Mom wants to see you. Come to the Leveson Estate. Now.]

I couldn't care less about Dylan—but his mom, Patricia? She was different.

She treated me like I actually mattered. Like family.

The last thing I wanted was to hurt her.

When I got to the Leveson Estate, where Patricia and Yana were staying, I rushed in—only to walk straight into a laugh track.

"She's like a leech," Yana snorted, draped all over Millie. "I used Dylan's phone to send that message and look—she actually showed. Girl only snagged him with that body. But now that you're back"—she flashed Millie a smug smile—"you're the only sister-in-law I claim."

Millie let out this dainty little laugh and glanced my way. "Yana, be nice. She's small-town, remember? She's gotta play dirty. Poor thing just doesn't know better."

Right. According to them, I only married Dylan because I was desperate.

A nobody who wasn't even in the league.

And Millie? She was the golden girl. The one who belonged.

I was just the extra. Disposable. Forgettable.

I looked at Yana. "Apologize."

She smirked. "Why would I?"

"Cool." I held up my phone. "I recorded everything. I'll just loop it for your mom."

Their faces dropped.

Patricia might be sweet, but she doesn't play when her son's ex starts trash-talking—especially if it's aimed at someone close to Dylan.

If she heard that mess, Yana was 100 percent getting called out.

Millie gave Yana a look—Yana's jaw looked one insult away from shattering. Millie patted her hand, then turned to me.

"Just because Dylan's mom likes you doesn't mean you've locked in the Mrs. Leveson title."

Locked in?

Girl, I wasn't even trying to stay in this circus.

I didn't explain. Just came to say hi to Patricia and dip.

Didn't plan on seeing Dylan stroll over, holding Patricia's arm.

"Why are you back?"

I was about to lay it all out—make him stop blaming me for everything.

But then he looked at me... and smiled. Not fake. Real.

I froze.

Millie stood, tilted her head, and hit him with that fake-innocent look. "Judy told me I don't belong... said I should leave..."

"Judy?" His smile died fast. Ice glare on full blast. "I've put up with a lot. Millie's just visiting my mom after forever, and you show up late just to throw her out?"

His jaw tightened. One look at Patricia—yeah, she wasn't buying it.

"Mom, you saw it. Judy's way outta line. Don't blame me. Honestly? I regret marrying her."

Millie lifted her hand like she might tear up any second, but that sparkle in her eyes? Girl was loving this.

Yana leaned back, legs crossed, eyes glued to me like she had front-row seats to a meltdown.

Only, plot twist—nothing happened.

I wasn't mad.

I was calm.

Dylan's words? Just noise.

***

When Millie popped back into the picture, Patricia actually tried to knock some sense into Dylan.

She said our marriage was solid, warned him not to run back to the girl who'd already burned him once.

His response? "I can't even stand looking at Judy. Always pretending she's some high-society queen. My friends crack up behind her back. Wears designer like it's Halloween. No grace at all."

The kicker? He picked that dress. Told me I looked gorgeous in it.

Every ounce of "class" I had? Taught by him.

He used to say he loved how bold I was. Called it freeing. Then one day, bam—suddenly it was "vulgar." "Low-class."

So I stopped going out. Skipped his work parties. Didn't wanna "embarrass" him.

That turned me into the lazy wife who "did nothing."

Tried to fix it. Took courses, learned to blend in with his snobby crowd.

But when they found out? Now I was "fake."

No matter what I did, I was always the problem.

My thoughts snapped back just as Dylan sneered, "What, nothing to say? Eight years and still no kid. If Mom hadn't stopped me, I'd have dumped you ages ago."

Yeah. Eight years. Not even a baby.

It's not like we never slept together—back when he still gave a damn. But even then, he never wanted a kid with me.

He knew I did. Always did. Still, nothing.

That ache never left. And he knew exactly how to twist the knife.

Always hit the soft spots, just enough to make me snap in public. To make me look like the crazy one.

The loud, low-class wife who couldn't keep it together.

But this time? Those words didn't hurt. They felt like a release.

"Fine. Let's divorce right now."

I looked straight at him. Locked eyes.

And there it was—pure shock. Straight-up panic.