Chapter 3Rewriting the Tragic Ex Wife Script

I lay in bed for another hour, sinking deep into my own misery.

Eventually, Jeremy appeared in the doorway, an apron tied around his waist. "Dinner's ready."

His tone was detached. Cold. It made my skin crawl. Back in the day, if he had dared to speak to me with that kind of ice, I would have thrown a fit. But now, terrified of pushing him entirely into the arms of the "FMC," I dragged myself out of bed without a word.

I had never cooked a day in my life. After the bankruptcy, when we had to let the housekeeper go, I tried. But my culinary skills began and ended with microwave ramen and frozen pizza; everything else I touched turned to charcoal. Jeremy, raised by his grandfather after losing his parents young, was entirely self-sufficient. He was actually a phenomenal cook. When he was home, the kitchen was his domain.

He had made seared salmon, garlic asparagus, and a delicate squash soup—all my favorites.

Looking at the steam rising from the plates, the back of my throat burned. Tears, unbidden and humiliating, slipped down my cheeks. I turned my head away fast, wiping my face with the back of my hand, and stared rigidly at my plate.

Maybe it was the heavy atmosphere, but the food tasted like ash. After a few bites, my stomach rolled. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to put my fork down.

"I'm full," I whispered.

Jeremy frowned, setting his own fork down. He looked at me, his eyes guarded. "I'm flying to Chicago for a few days. Take the weekend to really think about what you want to do about us."

My hands curled into fists under the table. "Where in Chicago? For how long?"

"Just downtown. I'll be back Sunday night at the latest."

I stood up, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. "I already told you, I am not getting a divorce!"

Jeremy looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before he looked away. "Suit yourself."

Suit myself?

I let out a sound of pure frustration, stomped my foot like a petulant child, and stormed back to the bedroom.

Half an hour later, I heard him zipping up his duffel bag. I curled into a tight ball, facing the wall, silently weeping into the quilt. It took him less than ten minutes to pack. He didn't come in to say goodbye. I heard the scrape of his bag, the heavy thud of the front door closing.

Once he was gone, the silence of the apartment crashed down on me. The silent weeping turned into a sob, and the sob tore into a full-blown, ugly wail.

[Cry, cry, cry! That’s all she does. Crying away whatever good luck she has left!]

[This side-character is so useless. All tears, no brains.]

[What did you expect from the 'beautiful but useless' trope?]

[Honestly, if she wasn't so pathetic, it wouldn't be this easy for the FMC to steal her husband. The more useless she is, the better.]

[True that, lol!]