calling such gifts “bad habits.”
He’d removed my name from our household credit card after I ordered another bottle sterilizer without permission.
Yet he’d purchased his mistress a necklace worth more than six months of groceries.
I laughed bitterly.
Then laughter turned to tears.
I covered my mouth so the babies wouldn’t hear.
For a long time, I stared at the box and remembered who I’d been before Cole Whitmore.
Lauren Bennett.
Twenty-six.
New to Manhattan.
Naive enough to confuse ambition with integrity.
Cole remembered my coffee order after meeting
