Chapter 4Rewriting the Tragic Ex Wife Script

Reading the words hovering in the air only made me cry harder. I was drowning in my own pity party when the mattress suddenly dipped behind me.

I gasped, spinning around in terror. Jeremy was sitting on the edge of the bed. I had no idea when he’d come back. He was looking down at me, his expression a complicated mess of exhaustion and sorrow.

I choked on a sob, glaring at him defensively. "What... what do you want?!"

He stared at me for a long time. Then, without a word, he reached out, pulled me against his chest, and buried his face in my hair.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

I froze against him.

I knew what that apology meant. He was apologizing for failing. For losing the company, for the cramped apartment, for not giving me the charmed life he had sworn to my mother he’d provide.

But business was just business. Fortunes rise and fall. When he first went bankrupt, I was terrified, yes. But I adapted. I always believed he would find his way back to the top. I never, not even for a fraction of a second, considered leaving him because the money ran out.

I wasn't crying because I missed the penthouse. I was crying because he didn't trust me. He didn't believe that someone had sent me that photo, and worse, he didn't believe I could stand by him when things got dark.

"You are wrong," I said, my voice thick and muffled against his shirt. "I did get a picture of you kissing someone. Why won't you just believe me? Why is it so hard to believe someone hacked my phone and deleted it?"

Jeremy’s hand stroked a slow, rhythmic circle on my back. "Okay," he said softly. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted you."

I let out a wet huff. I knew he was just placating me, but there was a time to fight and a time to fold. I let myself sink into his warmth.

He held me a little tighter. "If everything goes according to plan," he murmured, his voice rumbling against my ear, "I can clear the debt in three years. We might not have the private jets again, but we'll be comfortable. We'll be okay."

I didn't offer some fake, noble speech about loving the struggle. I just pressed my face deeper into the crook of his neck and breathed in the scent of his cedarwood cologne. "Okay."

He didn't say anything else. He just leaned down and pressed a long, soft kiss to my forehead.

In that quiet, suspended moment, I could have sworn he loved me.

We stayed like that for a long time, just breathing together, until he finally pulled back. He kissed my forehead one last time. "I have to catch my flight. Wait for me. When I get back, I'm taking you out for a real dinner."

I nodded, feeling absurdly small. "Okay."

I walked him to the door, suddenly reluctant to let him leave. "Be careful in Chicago."

"I will." He smiled, a genuine, blinding smile that made my chest stutter. He reached out and ruffled my hair. "Be good. Wait for me."

My heart did a violent flip. Flustered, I muttered a quick goodbye and shut the door.

[Wait, I'm kind of shipping them now. The arranged marriage to lovers arc is hitting.]

[Ew, why? She brings nothing to the table but her face. The FMC is a powerhouse. Power couples are way better.]

[Yeah, FMC all the way.]

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling.

Right. The FMC was a powerhouse. And her definition of female empowerment apparently included breaking up a marriage. Cool.