had ever been real.
“Don’t make this embarrassing, Claire.”
Margaret Whitmore’s voice cut through my thoughts.
She stood on the marble staircase wearing a cream silk dress, diamond earrings, and the expression of a woman who had just successfully removed an inconvenient stain from an expensive carpet.
“Ethan has moved on,” she continued. “You should learn to do the same.”
Behind her stood my ex-husband.
Ethan had one hand tucked into his trouser pocket. His other hand hung at his side, his wedding ring still on his finger, even though
