Part 1My Husband and the Ghost of His Youth

After Declan Rhys cheated, I returned the favor.

He would publicly make out with his latest fling in tabloids; I would stage a highly suggestive paparazzi shot with a young, impossibly handsome actor. The intimate photos of him and Sally Adler would fly around the dark web; I'd send him a chillingly realistic deepfake of me in a luxury resort suite.

Declan barely contained his fury, his eyes simmering with a cruel amusement as he finally walked up to me.

“I’m taking Sally out tonight. It’s her birthday. Go on, find someone to celebrate your own birthday with,” he challenged, his voice dangerously low.

“If you end up sitting alone tonight, don’t even try to pretend you’re above me.”

I meticulously applied a deep crimson lipstick, my hand steady. I met his gaze in the mirror, letting my casual tone be the final insult.

“Don’t worry about me. He’s already on his way to pick me up.”

That person was him.

The eighteen-year-old version of him. The one who put me first, who was pure devotion, the boy who would undoubtedly agree to my ultimate birthday wish.

...

* * *

The sickening thwack of the glass, followed by the sickening sound of my ornate vanity mirror shattering into a spiderweb of cracks, jolted me.

Before I could process the shock, Declan’s hand clamped down on my wrist, his grip bruising.

“April Hale, are you done? Does getting back at me make you feel this good?!”

Maybe it did.

After all, Declan found a new woman when he drank, another on a business trip, and yet another when he went on vacation. He was relentlessly, exhaustingly unfaithful.

My calm expression seemed to drive him past the breaking point. He gritted his teeth, his jaw ticking.

“Who is he?”

“Someone you wouldn’t recognize.”

The very words he’d used to push me to the edge of sanity, I could now deliver with an icy detachment.

A cold, humorless laugh escaped him. “Perfect. You’re really proving you’re capable of anything.”

The next second, his strained patience snapped. He roared, “Where did he touch you? Tell me!”

Declan began tearing at my cocktail dress, his eyes scanning my body like I was a piece of incriminating evidence.

“Here? Was it here?”

I wrenched myself free and slapped him across the face, the sound echoing in the silent room.

“Declan, you bastard!”

It was only when he saw the involuntary, purely physiological tears welling in my eyes that his feverish rage subsided, softening his tone to something darkly paternal.

“If you’re only inventing these stories to anger me because I’m missing your birthday, you’re being tragically petty.”

He pulled a silk-lined velvet box from his suit pocket.

As he did, a small, soiled piece of lace lingerie fluttered to the floor.

I was used to it. I’d found used contraceptives under our sheets, and strange, novelty items in the kitchen drawer. This scrap of underwear was minor, a footnote to the rot.

A flicker of panic crossed Declan’s face, but he quickly smoothed it over, pretending nothing had happened.

“Here. Happy birthday.” He shoved the box at me. “Take it and stop being so dramatic.”

I took the box, a tiny, foolish seed of hope—for a normal moment, a normal gift—sprouting in my chest.

But when I opened it, nestled against the silk lining was a grotesque, decaying dead rat.

The putrid smell hit me instantly. I screamed, dropping the box.

“It’s Sally’s idea of a prank,” he said dismissively, not even looking at the box. “I’ll get you a proper diamond later.”

Replacing my prenatal vitamins with miscarriage-inducing medication was her “prank.” Tampering with the brakes on my car was her “prank.” The excuse was worn and rotten, much like the gift.

I grabbed disinfectant wipes and furiously scrubbed my hands. My voice was dull. “You don’t need to explain. I didn’t say I wanted your gift.”

That simple statement seemed to ignite a fresh, uncontrollable blaze of fury in him. He swept his arm across a nearby table, sending expensive porcelain crashing to the floor.

“So you expected the other man to buy you one! April Hale, stop this pathetic act! You’re putting on this show just to get me to settle down and come home! Well, dream on!”

With that final, explosive declaration, he grabbed a bulk box of contraceptives from a drawer and stormed out, not looking back.

The water I had spilled on myself was scalding, but I barely noticed the burning. I stood amidst the wreckage, my heart a heavy, sinking weight.

Eighteen-year-old Declan would never have done this.

He had given me a huge bouquet of baby’s breath—my favorite—and, like a giddy teenage boy, showed me the tattoo of my name on his collarbone.

He had held me close, a desperate, fearful devotion in his eyes.

“April, I promise. I’ll grant you any birthday wish you have.”

Eventually, I pulled back from the boy’s embrace and looked him dead in the eyes.

“My birthday wish is to divorce your future self.”