No Longer His Convenient Wife

Dahlia I didn’t expect to receive dirty photos of another woman’s legs during a Tuesday afternoon meeting, but here we are. The photo loaded slow on the conference room Wi-Fi. It showed a woman’s legs stretched out on white silk sheets, smooth and bare all the way up, one knee bent just enough to show the curve of her thigh disappearing under a tiny scrap of black lace. Red heels dangled off the edge of what looks like a man’s dress shirt and a thin gold chain around her ankle. Below the photo was a single line of text: “Mr. Sebastian, I can’t find my stockings anywhere. Pretty sure I left them at your place last time. Think you could help me find them? ;) It’s addressed to Sebastian Hawthorne. CEO. My boss And—minor detail—my husband. My finger froze on the mouse. Well. That was ambitious. The conference room feels smaller suddenly. Hotter even. I glance up at the twenty-something faces around the table, wondering if anyone noticed my dilemma. But they’re all watchin

Not across from her. Not a respectful distance at the other end of the table. Right beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. Sebastian’s hand presses harder into my lower back, forcing me forward when all I want to do is turn around and walk back out. Arabella looks up and her face lights up with a smile. “Sebastian! We were just talking about you.” Marisol rises from her seat gracefully, kisses Sebastian on both cheeks and then turns to me. “Dahlia. You’re here.” Not hello. Not how are you. “Mother.” I manage. “Marisol, please. We’ve been over this.” She’s already turning back to Arabella. “Bella was just telling me about her time in London. You should hear about the charity gala she organized last spring—it raised over two million pounds in a single night, can you imagine?” Bella. Bella. I stare at Arabella—at Bella—and something clicks into place. Sebastian mentioned Bella once. Maybe twice. His childhood friend. The one who left for a bett

Dahlia I wake up to white ceiling tiles and the smell of antiseptic. My head feels like someone took a hammer to it. When I try to move, sharp pain shoots through my ribs and shoulder and I have to bite back a groan. “Easy there.” A nurse appears beside the bed—young, maybe mid-twenties, with kind eyes and purple scrubs. “You’re awake. That’s good. How are you feeling?” “Like I got hit by a truck.” She smiles sympathetically. “Close. You were in a multi-vehicle accident on Route 9. You’ve been unconscious for hours.” She smiles. “You were in a car accident. Multi-vehicle collision on Route 9. You’ve been out for about two hours.” I try to piece together what happened—the little girl in the road, the screech of tires, the impact, everything going black. “You have a mild concussion and some bruising, but you’re very lucky. It could have been much worse.” She’s checking something on a monitor beside the bed. “There is something else though.” My stomach clenches. “What?

Dahlia The train lurches to a stop and I grab my suitcase before the doors slide open. Home. I haven’t been back in almost two years. The platform looks exactly the same—weathered wooden benches, flower boxes overflowing with petunias, the old station master’s office with its faded green shutters. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I stare at his name on the screen. Answer or ignore? I answer. “Hello Sebastian.” “What the fuck is this?” No greeting. Just pure rage. “I assume you’re referring to the divorce papers.” “The reason, Dahlia.” He sounds like he’s barely containing himself. “You really put in writing that I’m inadequate?” I can’t help the small smile that pulls at my lips. “Is there a problem with the paperwork? I had a lawyer review it to make sure everything was accurate.” “Accurate?” I can practically hear him gritting his teeth. “You know damn well that’s not accurate.” “I stated my experience of our marriage. If you disagree you’re welcome to contest it in cour

He cuts through the bar like he’s parting water and people just move. That’s what money does I guess. Buys you space even when you’re not asking for it. He’s still in his work clothes, still perfectly pressed even though it’s past ten at night.The music hasn’t stopped but our entire table has gone dead silent and I can feel everyone staring at us waiting to see what’s about to happen.I set my wine glass down real slow and tilt my head at him like I’m trying to place where I know him from.“Are you following me, Mr. Hawthorne?”The “Mr.” is petty. I know it’s petty. But I want him to feel a fraction of the distance I felt standing outside Arabella’s hospital room watching him.“No.” The word comes out stiff, I’ve insulted him by suggesting he’d care enough to follow me anywhere.I take a long sip of wine and let myself smile. “Good. Then you have absolutely no right to interfere with how I spend my Saturday night.”His jaw locks up so tight I can actually see the muscle ticking bene