Chapter 1His Intern

The day my husband’s intern showed up on my doorstep was our twentieth wedding anniversary.

She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, maybe nineteen, with a look in her eyes that was a brazen cocktail of confidence and contempt.

“James told me he never knew what true love was until he met me,” she announced. “You’ve had a nice long run, but it’s time to step aside.”

When I asked James to fire her, he said I was being unreasonable.

My own daughter told me I was just menopausal and paranoid, and then, to my horror, she befriended the intern.

My first instinct was to endure it, to weather this storm as I had with all the other little flings and flirtations over the years.

But then I found out the girl was pregnant.

And James had moved her into the very first apartment we ever shared—the place where our love story began.

That’s when I knew. Some things, once they become trash, just need to be thrown out.

I contacted the best divorce attorney in the city. But when James found out, his eyes went wild. He grabbed my arm, his voice raw.

“You’re hiring your ex-boyfriend to handle our divorce? After all these years, you still haven't forgotten him?”

* * *

To be honest, at the very beginning, I really did try to just let it go.

The intern, Heather, was so young—barely out of her teens. My husband, James, had just turned forty-one. Our daughter was already in college.

The girl came to me, her eyes brimming with tears, pleading for me to “set their love free.”

Her eyes sparkled with a fierce determination, a mirror of the reckless girl I once was. Now, all I saw in my own reflection were fine lines creeping from the corners of my eyes and the stray silver hair I’d found that morning.

“Claire,” she said, her tone falsely sweet, “let’s be honest, woman to woman. Your body isn’t what it used to be. You don’t know a thing about his business. What exactly are you holding onto him with?”

She leaned in, a conspiratorial smirk on her lips. “The only reason James hasn't divorced you is because he’s a good man, and he pities you. But there’s a line, you know? A person can’t be that shameless.”

A dry laugh escaped my lips. I looked at this smug girl, her lips pursed in a perfect pout. “I’m sorry, did I hear you right? You, the little homewrecker who wormed her way into my family, are calling me shameless?”

She pulled down the collar of her blouse, revealing a stretch of pale neck littered with a constellation of angry red marks.

“Last night, he held me and told me that being with me was the first time he ever felt a true union of body and soul.” Her voice was a triumphant whisper. “From my first day at the company, he took care of everything for me. He taught me how to read financial statements, how to analyze contracts, how to negotiate.”

“I understand his ambition, his dreams. At the office, I’m his right hand. In bed,” she paused, her eyes glinting, “I’m the fantasy he can’t get enough of.”

I let out a cold snort and leaned back in my chair. “Heather, is it? You’re an intern, not even graduated yet. You think it’s some grand achievement to sleep your way into my husband's bed under the guise of work?”

I let the question hang in the air. “You don’t actually believe you’re the first little girl to latch onto James Shaw, do you?”

Heather’s body went rigid. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face.

“Have you ever wondered why he’s never divorced me?” I pressed, watching the panic bloom in her eyes, her breathing growing shallow. “There’s a saying: better to be a rich man’s wife than a poor man’s darling. Instead of waving your youth around like a trophy, you should be thinking about how much money you can squeeze out of him before he gets tired of you and kicks you to the curb.”

When I got home, James was on the sofa, scrolling through documents on his tablet.

Time had been exceptionally kind to him. Even in his forties, the years had only carved a deeper, more mature intensity into his brow, making him all the more magnetic.

He heard me come in but didn't look up.

This was the rhythm of our life after twenty years. An unspoken truce. If I didn’t speak, it meant there was nothing to discuss.

I went into the kitchen and soon returned with dinner. Three dishes and a soup.

James put down his tablet and moved to the table.

“Jenna called. She wants you to pick her up for Fall Break.”

“Okay.”

“Your mother hasn’t been feeling well. She needs to see a doctor.”

“Fine. You can handle it.”

“The bathroom floor is getting slippery. I was thinking of having it redone.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“Heather came to see me today.”

…

His eyes finally lifted from his bowl, meeting mine. His expression was flat, detached, with just a hint of confusion.

“And?”

His mistress had just confronted me, and all he had to say was and?

Even after years of mastering my temper, the word lodged in my throat. I frowned, staring at him. “James, we are married. What you are doing is called having an affair.”

Something in my tone must have struck a nerve. He slammed his bowl down on the table with a sharp crack.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Claire.”

“Heather is just an intern at the office. I help her out a little, and suddenly you’re acting like a paranoid lunatic.”

Classic James. Not just deceiving himself, but turning the blame back on me.

Dinner ended in a cold, suffocating silence.

I expected the tension to linger for days.

I was wrong. The very next afternoon, I came home from grocery shopping to find Heather in my living room.

She was wearing the slippers I’d bought for our daughter, leaning against James’s shoulder as he handed her a glass of homemade lemonade.

“Oh, James, you’re amazing! I can’t believe you know how to make this from scratch.”

She took a long sip, her head tilted back as she gazed at him with pure adoration.

“Heh, don’t be so dramatic. Drink it slowly,” he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a drop from the corner of her mouth, his fingers lingering on her lips.

A sharp, bitter scent of lemon filled the air.

When we were young and newly in love, I had a craving for fresh lemonade. James bought lemons by the crate, spending hours perfecting his recipe, determined to make the freshest, most delicious drink just for me.

And now, he was making it for her.

Heather took another small sip, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She settled back on the sofa, her pale, slender legs swinging playfully.

I saw James’s gaze darken. It was a look I knew all too well.

The look of desire.

He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap.

Just as their lips were about to meet, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Seeing me didn’t faze her. She stayed right where she was, draped over James, and simply tilted her head.

“Oh, hi, Claire! We meet again!” she chirped. “Sorry about this, I twisted my ankle, and James was just taking a look. You don’t mind, do you?”

She shifted her weight, and a low grunt escaped James’s lips.

I took a slow breath, walked to the dining table, and set down the groceries.

Then, I turned to my husband. “Let’s get a divorce.”