Chapter 4The Ghost I Crowned

The cracks, of course, were there from the beginning.

The first time he brought his family to meet mine. A convoy of black cars rolling up the gravel driveway of our small Ohio farmhouse. My parents, their faces weathered by the sun, their hands calloused from work, were terrified. They thought debt collectors had come. When they realized it was a proposal, they were ecstatic.

My father offered Donovan one of his good cigars. My mother brought out the special-occasion tea she saved for holidays.

I saw the flicker of discomfort in Donovan’s eyes. But he was well-bred, and he covered it smoothly, changing the subject. Sitting beside him, I saw the subtle clenching of his jaw, the slight wrinkle of his nose.

He never lit my father’s cigar. The Hayes family staff didn’t touch a single cup of tea.

At the time, I just thought, some things are different, and that’s okay. We didn’t have to force it.

But I was naive. Those small moments were a map of the chasm that separated our worlds. As the years passed and the initial passion cooled, our different values began to tear us apart.

The first time he cheated, my world collapsed.

It wasn’t even a real affair. He was out with his friends, a pack of trust-fund heirs, all of them single. They were at some exclusive club, each with a model draped over them. Donovan was sitting alone, and one of them—Wes, his so-called best friend—grabbed a bottle girl and pushed her onto Donovan’s lap.

He started to refuse, but then his eyes landed on her, and he stopped.

Later, drunk, they ended up in a bathroom stall together. A muffled groan, the sound of a zipper. He handed her a wad of cash and told her to clean herself up.

I was at home, fuming that he was late again, when an anonymous text came through with a picture. I drove to the club like a woman possessed.

I saw him walking out of the men’s room just as the girl walked out of the women’s.

That night, we had the fight of all fights. In front of all his friends, I clawed at his face, leaving red streaks down his cheek. A paparazzo caught the whole thing. It ended up on Page Six.

Donovan paid a fortune to kill the story and didn’t come home for a month.

But he did come back. He apologized, his pride making the words stick in his throat. It was probably the first time in his life he’d ever had to say sorry to anyone. I cried for days.

The next morning, his mother, who had never liked me, gave me a look of pure ice. “You’d do well to learn your place, Evelyn.”

I didn’t understand what she meant then. I did after the second affair. And the third. And the thirteenth.

I cried over every single one. I made a scene every single time.

Number thirteen surfaced the day before my birthday. I thought I was going to lose my mind.

Number fourteen was Stella.

This time, I didn’t cry.

I brought her home.

And Donovan, hearing the news while on his business trip, finally rushed back.