Just as He Abandoned Me

All of Manhattan knew my husband, real estate tycoon Ryker Blackwood, would rather be seen with a nightclub dancer on his arm than ever lay a finger on me.

The gossip columns had long ago dubbed me "the Untouchable Blackwood Bride."

At a charity dinner, in front of a sea of cameras, Ryker leaned close. His breath, thick with whiskey and cheap perfume, washed over my neck. "Our marriage is an open one, Aria. If you're lonely, feel free to find your own entertainment."

With that, he coolly adjusted his cufflinks and turned away.

That night, photos of him tangled with his new flame in a SoHo penthouse went viral.

And just when everyone expected me to swallow my humiliation in silence, I retreated to my art studio.

I tore the strap of a silk nightgown, splashed crimson paint across the white sheets in the corner, and staged a scene of post-coital chaos. Then, I took a picture.

Using an anonymous burner phone, I sent a single text to Ryker:

"A masterpiece, Blackwood. You should learn to appreciate her before someone else does."

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1

Less than half an hour later, Ryker stormed into my studio, radiating a cold fury.

"Aria! Is this your idea of revenge? Who the hell is he?" He shoved a printed photograph in my face.

It was a page torn from a gossip rag: one half showed my suggestive photo, the other, Ryker pinning a woman I recognized as Chloe Montgomery against a floor-to-ceiling window in a heated clinch.

The headline screamed in bold type: BLACKWOODS' OPEN MARRIAGE: HE'S GOT A NEW FLAME, AND SHE'S GOT A MYSTERY MAN.

I remained seated before my easel, calmly pulling the strings of my painting smock tighter.

"Isn't this what you wanted? Though, you really shouldn't have picked my father's illegitimate daughter. It makes me the laughingstock of New York."

Ryker’s breath hitched. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he gritted his teeth. "Who is he?"

"You don't need to know. That's what makes it fair."

Once, I’d foolishly sworn to learn the name of every one of his mistresses. I quickly learned it was a pointless effort; before I could even identify one woman, he’d already moved on to the next. I gave up. It only magnified my own humiliation.

Ryker let out a cold, sharp laugh. "You've got some nerve."

His gaze locked onto the crimson smear I’d painted on my collarbone, and then he shoved me backward, sending me crashing onto a palette of wet paints.

A scream tore from my throat as I thrashed against him.

He grabbed a shard from the shattered glass palette, its sharp edge digging into my skin. Blood bloomed instantly, mingling with the paint.

"Are you insane?! Let go of me!"

Ryker’s eyes were bloodshot as he pinned me, a vein pulsing at his temple. "This is the first and last time. I'll kill the story. Now, before I truly lose my temper, you'll go back to being my perfectly behaved wife."

Being his "perfectly behaved wife" meant feigning indifference to his affairs, playing the part of the blissfully ignorant spouse. It meant that when his flavor of the month flaunted their relationship in my face—sometimes even sending me the very gifts he’d bought them—I was supposed to endure it all with a silent, dignified smile.

Ryker's cold eyes bored into me for a long moment, only releasing his grip when he saw the tears I couldn't stop from sliding down my cheeks.

He retrieved a first-aid kit from a drawer and stepped toward me, but I shoved him back with all my strength.

"Don't touch me!"

Ryker straightened, his face a grim mask. "I know you did this just to provoke me, to get my attention. Is this all for show?"

In our struggle, the glass shard had sliced my arm again. Blood soaked my silk sleeve. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, but the sharp sting was a dull ache compared to the agony ripping through my heart.

Ryker’s gaze was merciless. "My mother was right. You’re a social climber with no real class! Was this whole thing just a performance? If you have the guts, then divorce me! Your half-sister is more real and has more grace in her little finger than you'll ever have!"

After spitting the vicious words, he turned and slammed the door behind him.

Not long after, a divorce agreement, already signed by him, landed in my inbox. It offered a grossly unfair 70-30 split of our assets.

He was always so sure I would never dare to leave him.

I printed the agreement, signed my name with a flourish, and then made a call to arrange my exit.

Oh, Ryker. What makes you so sure he doesn't exist?