the second I saw Adrian’s name flash across the screen, something inside me went numb.
Six months after our divorce, my ex-husband was calling me from outside a cathedral in Manhattan.
“Emma,” he said brightly, his fake cheer dripping with poison, “I figured you should hear it from me first. Today I’m marrying Vanessa.”
Behind him I could hear violins, champagne glasses clinking, rich people laughing. The polished soundtrack of wealthy guests celebrating a man who had wrecked my life and still expected admiration for it.
I looked down at
