Chapter 2: What’s the Big Deal?

Willow’s POV

I dug my fork into my main dish, but when I put the Jamaican jerk chicken into my mouth, it burned. I grimaced. It was far too spicy. I reached for my water while Beatrice smirked.

“Too hot for you?” she asked.

I didn’t reply. All the food on the table was made to suit Beatrice’s flavor preferences, not mine. I couldn’t tolerate spicy food. As my husband, Logan was supposed to know that.

I looked up at Logan. His eyes were boring into me. He was still waiting for an answer as to whether or not I was okay with him divorcing me and marrying Beatrice so she could adopt Zoe.

“Well?” Logan prodded, impatience in his voice.

I set down my fork and dabbed at my mouth with my napkin.

“Divorce is very serious,” I replied. “I don’t think this is the right path. I’m sorry, but Beatrice will have to find someone else to ‘fake marry’.”

Logan inhaled a sharp breath at my reply and shook his head.

“This is absolutely the right path,” he told me. “How can you not see that? This plan makes perfect sense. Beatrice is my best friend from college. Plus, she’s technically your sister. Who better to help her than her best friend and sister?”

His words hung in the air as I sneered inwardly.

Sister?

That was a stretch.

More like the illegitimate daughter that my father brought home out of nowhere the moment we buried my mother.

“You know what, it’s fine,” Beatrice said, her tone indicating it was anything but fine. “Clearly, Willow has reservations.”

She reached out and clamped her hand over Zoe’s. Then she pushed back her chair to leave.

“We’ll find another solution,” she said to Logan.

“No, wait,” Logan said, quickly stopping her. “Sit back down.” Then Logan turned to me, an impatient look in his eyes. “What’s the big deal, Willow?” he asked. “It’s just a fake divorce. It’s not permanent. We’ll get re-married once the adoption goes through.”

I balked.

How could Logan not see that this was a bad idea? How was treating our marriage like it was nothing, like it was just something we could turn on and off like a faucet.

If he wasn’t going to honor our marriage, how could I? A knot grew in my stomach. I started to realize just how far apart Logan and I really were.

None of this dinner was about me: not the food, not the cake, not even the guest list. It was my birthday, and there he was, talking about getting a divorce?

And even worse, he was making it sound like it was no big deal, like our vows to each other meant nothing.

“If you want to get divorced, then maybe we shouldn’t get remarried,” I said. All the years of squashed down anger started to rise inside of me.

“You should be grateful,” he scoffed. His eyes narrowed. “I mean, look at you. Who else would even want you? Of course we’ll get remarried. If we stay divorced, where will you even live?”

His words cut deep, like knives.

I had to look away, to hide the tears that threatened to fall from my eyes. I blinked them back.

“Daddy’s right,” Leo chimed in. “You should help Aunty Beatrice.”

What?

I whipped my head towards Leo. He was sticking out his chin, his arms crossed over his chest in defiance. “I want a younger sibling. To play with. But you won’t give me one.”

My heart twisted. I knew how badly Leo wanted a younger sibling. He’d even put it on his Christmas wish list to Santa.

He stared at me accusingly.

How could I explain that it wasn’t my fault? I wanted another child, too. Just as badly as Leo wanted a sibling.

But Logan had barely touched me in years, let alone talked about having another child.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. My husband, my son, and my half-sister were all staring at me like predators closing in.

“Fine,” Logan finally said, his expression softening a bit. “Think it over. We don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

For a brief moment I was grateful for his change of tone. But he ordered me to, ‘Go and get the flowers from the florist.”

Like a servant.

He was speaking to me like I was some sort of servant, and not his cherished wife.

My chair scraped across the floor as I stood up, while they all continued eating the spicy food that I couldn’t even eat. I wandered out of the restaurant and into the cool night air, wondering why I was ‘fetching’ flowers for myself on my own birthday.

Hustling across the street to pick up my own flowers, I felt foolish. But when the florist handed me a bouquet of daisies, I shook my head.

I hated daisies. Daisies were Beatrice’s favorite flower, not mine.

“Change the order,” I told the florist.

White roses. That’s what I wanted. Three dozen. Hell, make it four.

If I had to pick up my own bouquet, I might as well pick out something I liked.

They cost a fortune, but I didn’t care. Slamming down Logan’s black Amex card, the florist smiled.

“Put it on the card,” I told her, silently gloating a bit at the cost.

Walking out of the florist, I held the roses up to my nose, inhaling their sweet scent. With my head in the flowers though, I didn’t see where I was going and accidentally bumped into a man walking past.

The collision caused one of the roses to come loose. It swirled through the air and fell to the ground.

We both crouched down for the rose at the same time. My fingers grazed his, and the sudden jolt made me flinch.

I looked up instinctively, straight into his eyes.

God, they were deep and sharp, the kind that made it impossible to look away.

For a second I forgot how to breathe, and the V of his shirt didn’t help; it only made him look even more distracting.

I pulled my hand back in a hurry. He picked up the rose first and held it out to me, his voice low and magnetic as he said, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention either,” I replied quickly, trying to steady myself.

“That bouquet suits your dress,” he smiled. “Is that a vintage Chanel? It looks fantastic on you.”

A soft laugh escaped my lips, half-embarrassed, half-amused. “I wish. Just something I picked up from a street shop.”

Suddenly, a loud, high-pitched screech of brakes, EEEEEEEKKK!, tore through the street.