The Seventh Casing

"Beep. Incorrect code. Please try again."

The automated voice repeated it for the seventh time. My fingertips had gone cold, and I finally had to admit it: Dean had changed the lock code on our marital home.

But this was our marital home.

The place I'd poured a full year of my life into.

The floor plan, the paint on the walls, every single piece on display, I'd hunted them all down across a dozen countries. This was the home Dean and I had promised to grow old in.

I called him. The other end was full of voices and the faint clink of metal, the particular noise of his men handling business.

Dean sounded annoyed. "Ava, I'm busy."

"You changed the code to our place?" I cut in, keeping my voice low.

He paused, then rattled off a string of numbers like it was nothing. "Try 980206."

My breath caught. That number was Lena's birthday.

Dean's tone softened. "Her place is too damp. You know she still hasn't healed. She took that bullet for me, her leg never got better. I'm letting her stay here for a while."

My nails dug into my palm. The sharp little pain couldn't hold back the cold rising in my chest. I said it slowly, each word shaking. "This is our marital home. Yours and mine."

"Ava, it's a few days. We've got plenty of properties, one apartment isn't going to break us." His voice turned flat. "Look, stay at a hotel for now, I'll set it up. That's it. I'm busy."

Then the line went dead.

I'd had this conversation too many times.

Lena said she liked it once, and the birthday necklace he'd given me ended up around her neck.

"You have so much jewelry, one piece won't matter. I'll buy you another." Back then there'd at least been some guilt in his voice.

Later, a dress I'd designed was on her body before the sketch was even finished. When I confronted him, he didn't care anymore. "My brilliant designer has no shortage of ideas. What's one dress? Lena loves it. She won't even take it off."

She "accidentally" crushed a framed photo of Dean and me, and all he did was say, impatient, "We can always take more photos. Don't make a thing out of one picture."

If it had anything to do with Lena, everyone else was forced to yield.

Everyone in Westport knew it: Dean, the Don, had exactly one soft spot, and it was the woman who'd saved his life.

What no one knew was that I was the one who'd been with him for ten years, the fiancee he'd already promised to marry, an independent couture designer with a name of my own in the industry. And a designer with both looks and talent has no shortage of men chasing her either. One of him isn't hard to replace.

My finger found the keypad. I typed in another woman's birthday.

The lock clicked and opened.

A thick, cloying wave of perfume hit me. I held my breath, and the blood rushed to my head.

The living room I'd kept soft and understated was gone. The greige walls I'd chosen with such care had been slapped over in a harsh candy pink. The oil paintings and antiques I'd gathered across Europe were shoved into a corner gathering dust, replaced by a pile of cheap, childish stuffed animals.

On the main wall, dead center, hung a portrait of two people.

Lena tucked against Dean's chest, a bridal veil over her hair, her expression all softness, as if she were the lady of the house.

My eyes passed over it, and years of swallowed humiliation went off like a charge.

I flipped the coffee table. China shattered across the floor. I tore the disgusting portrait down and the frame split apart on the boards.

The room was wrecked. I sank into the couch.

If he was going to let another woman foul the home we'd built, then he could have her. I'd hand all of it over.

I hadn't cooled down yet when the lock turned again.

Lena came in wearing that soft, coquettish smile of hers. And behind her, of course, the man who was supposed to be so busy. Dean.