Page 1 of The Husband I Left

Prologue

Genny

For weeks I’ve imagined my entrance to the Sinclair Foundation Charity Gala playing out like something from a movie. I imagined a sleek black car gliding up to the curb in front of the Grand Harbor Hotel. I imagined a valet in white gloves opening my door. I imagined gracefully emerging one long leg at a time and taking the arm of a devastatingly handsome man who would then walk me past the flashing cameras as if we owned the night. Which, technically, my husband’s family sort of does.

Reality is definitely falling short, I decide, as Evan’s car shudders violently and dies with a horrible grinding noise and a great billowing cloud of steam right in front of the hotel’s double doors.

Directly. In front. Of the doors.

“No, no, no, come on, baby,” Evan groans, turning the key. “Don’t do this to me. Not here. Not in front of the fancy people.”

A small crowd of gala attendees on the front steps has all turned to gape at us. The attendants are looking at Evan’s Honda and making a face as if they smell something nasty. The steam rising up from the hood is glowing gold in the light spilling out from the hotel doors. And God help me, I can’t help it.

I start to laugh.

“This is not funny,” Evan says, but he’s fighting a smile.

“It’s a little funny.”

“This is a tragedy, is what this is. This car is a classic.”

“Evan, your car is terrifying on its best days.” I flip the visor down and take a moment to apply another layer of bright red lipstick while Evan mutters and tries to get the car to start again. Since I have everyone’s attention now, I may as make an impression. I start giggling again, imagining my mother-in-law, Nancy Sinclair’s, reaction when she hears about this. Her left eye might even do that little twitch. It’s been a while since I made her eye twitch.

Two years ago, hell, even two months ago, I would also have been very upset about this. I would have already been trapped in a death spiral of shame and embarrassment. I would never have done anything to risk Nancy’s disapproval, or my husband Oliver’s disappointment.

I am so, so done with that version of me.

I press my lips together, admiring how the color looks against my pale, freckled skin. For once, my wild red curls haven’t been tortured into submission with hot irons and hairspray before being forced into some elegant updo that meets with Nancy’s approval. Tonight, my curls are doing whatever they want, which is basically to explode in every direction at once, a riot of bright red coils hanging free down my back. I run my fingers through them, fluffing them out even more.

Nancy is going to hate my hair. She’s going to hate the lipstick. But what she’s really going to hate is the dress. Electric blue and tight enough that I had to hold my breath before Evan could get the zipper up, with a slit up the side that goes high enough to make a point. Nancy has picked out just about every other dress I’ve worn to a Sinclair function for the entirety of my marriage. She dresses me in soft colors and modest necklines. I’ve never been allowed to wear anything that might draw attention.

Thinking about how much attention I’m going to draw tonight fills me with unholy glee.

“Okay,” Evan slumps back against his seat. “I think she’s done for.” He turns to me, and his disgruntled expression turns into a grin. “We can’t let her sacrifice be in vain. You ready for this?”

“Oh, I’m ready,” I reply with a grin of my own. “Are you ready?”

“Are you kidding?” Evan’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “I get to play the mysterious other man in front of an entire ballroom of people high on the smell of their own farts. I’m ready.”

“Then let’s go.”

He pushes open his door and unfolds himself from the car, tall and golden and gorgeous in the tux he rented for the occasion, looking like he just stepped off a movie poster. He comes around and opens my door with a flourish, and I take his hand and step out, meeting the stares of the crowd of onlookers head on.

The attendant hurries over, his eyes fixed on the steam still curling out from under the hood. “Sir, you can’t — sir, this is the drop off lane, you can’t just leave your vehicle —”

“So sorry about that,” Evan says cheerfully, and tosses him the keys. The attendant catches them on what’s probably pure reflex. “You might need to call a tow truck.”

“A tow — sir —”

“She just gave out right here. Very sudden. I’ll be in mourning for at least a week.” Evan offers his arm to me, and I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow, and we walk away from the steaming car and the sputtering valet and up the steps of the Grand Harbor Hotel like we have every right in the world to be there.

I am Mrs. Oliver Sinclair; I remind myself. I do have every right in the world to be here.

“They’re already whispering,” I murmur.

“Good,” Evan whispers back. “By tomorrow, your face will be splashed across every gossip column in the city. ‘Mystery Man Escorting Sinclair Heir’s Bride — Trouble in Paradise?’”

The laugh escapes before I can stop it. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”