Overlooked Wife, Officially Done

"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.