Inside that envelope were legally binding divorce papers.
Resting mockingly on top of my navy-blue leather suitcase were my heavy brass house keys. My husband of eleven years, Ryan Montgomery, had left them there on the marble portico, discarding them with the casual indifference of a man returning a defective appliance. He was returning a life that, in his eyes, had passed its expiration date.
Laughter drifted from the open French doors of the living room. It wasn’t the nervous laughter of someone caught in a mistake. It was that comfortable, cruel, resonant sound that only escapes the throats of people who are entirely convinced they have already won.
I forced my feet to move. I walked up the driveway, my heels clicking like a metronome counting down the final seconds of my marriage. I peered through the open doorway. There was Ryan, lounging comfortably on the mahogany-leather sofa I had spent weeks picking out in Italy.
