Happy to Take Your Leftovers

Marcus was surprised by my decision and pressed me to confirm it.

"Mrs. Sterling, are you certain? You've really thought this through? A divorce means a clean break."

I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "Yes," I said through gritted teeth. "I've thought it through. Please, begin."

My entire family had been against my marriage to Blake. He came from a blue-collar family in the Midwest; my family's real estate empire was a cornerstone of Seattle.

No one thought we belonged in the same world.

My father only relented after forcing Blake to sign a rock-solid prenuptial agreement.

I used to laugh at how old-fashioned my father was, so sure Blake and I would grow old together. What a bitter joke that turned out to be.

I was the one who pursued Blake. In college, I had a long line of suitors, all of whom I politely declined.

Blake never approached me, never flattered me for my family's money.

I later learned it was because his "soulmate," Scarlett, attended the same university. He was so infatuated he was content to be her most devoted, yet unnoticed, admirer.

It was only when Scarlett announced her marriage to a wealthy European that Blake finally gave up.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was just tired and needed a temporary safe harbor. And I, the fool, thought it was real.

The morning after we first slept together, I proposed. Blake was stunned.

He once asked me, "Camille, aren't you afraid my heart belongs to someone else?"

I told him I was confident I could be his wife, his one and only.

Looking back, my naivety was laughable. Our entire relationship had been a farce from the very beginning.

Three years ago, Scarlett called, bored of skiing in Aspen, and Blake immediately flew to her side.

Two years ago, I was in the ER after a car accident, but Blake was unreachable. It turned out Scarlett had just divorced and flown back to the States; they’d spent the entire night celebrating her "newfound freedom."

Last year, he vanished from his own company's major launch event. I later heard from a friend he'd whisked Scarlett away to the Maldives.

I opened a mutual friend's Instagram. Tagged photos from the past few years told the whole story: Blake and Scarlett, traveling the world together.

It was all proof of his unwavering devotion.

The truth behind my miscarriage was laid bare on Scarlett's social media.

That Persian silk rug, the one meant to bring "good luck," wasn't a gift he'd bought. It was a cast-off Scarlett had brought back from Europe.

She hadn't sent it as a blessing. She’d sent it as a provocation.

Blake knew I was pregnant. Yet when that slick, treacherous rug was laid on the stairs, creating an obvious safety hazard, he didn't say a word.

I was finally awake. This marriage had been a mistake from the start.

It wasn't until I was lying on the floor alone, the blood soaking through my clothes, that I truly understood. Terrified and bleeding, I called Blake again and again, but he never picked up. He simply didn't care.

This mistake had to end.

Oh, Blake. I know you love her. And I’m going to make all your dreams come true.