Chapter 3Marrying My Ex For Revenge

I don't think I’ll ever be able to scrub that day from my mind.

I stood in front of the Marriage Bureau, clutching my paperwork, watching the sun climb to its zenith and then sink below the skyline.

The security guard, a man who had clearly seen enough heartbreak for ten lifetimes, finally sighed and told me it was time to go. They were closing.

I walked for two hours. I walked until the heel of my Louboutin snapped, until my feet were blistered and bleeding.

It felt right. The physical pain was a distraction.

When I finally let myself into the house, it was pitch black. Nathan wasn't there.

My phone had died hours ago. I didn't bother turning on the lights; I just sat on the sofa and watched the shadows stretch across the room until dawn broke.

He didn't walk through the door until 8:00 AM.

He looked exhausted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He saw me and asked, "Why are you up so early?"

He had completely forgotten. The most important day of our lives had been erased by whatever—or whoever—had kept him out.

"Nathan," I said, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.

"Where were you yesterday?"

There it was again. The question that had become the soundtrack to our relationship. Where were you? Who were you with? I had become the nagging, paranoid wife I always swore I’d never be.

Nathan’s face darkened with annoyance. He yanked at his tie. "Something came up at the office. Don't start, Erica."

I didn't remind him what day it was. I just nodded and let it go.

If he couldn't let her go, I would do it for him.

I hired a private investigator. Her name was Becca. She was a "fishmonger’s girl"—a high school dropout who worked the stalls at the local market, scaling sea bass with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

She was young. She was beautiful in a raw, unrefined way.

And she had a following. She was a local "blue-collar" influencer, the "Harbor Queen." People loved her because she was "authentic," a far cry from the polished socialites Nathan usually dealt with.

That was the draw. The extreme contrast. To a man who had everything, she was a trip to the wild side.

I made sure the "authenticity" of her brand was ruined. I leaked evidence of her affair with a married man to the local tabloids and her comment sections. Suddenly, the "Harbor Queen" was just another homewrecker.

Her live streams were flooded with vitriol.

Nathan grew more sullen by the day.

Finally, the dam broke. Someone threw a bucket of fish guts at her during her shift, screaming that she was a slut.

I was at home, eating lunch while watching the footage on my tablet, when Nathan slammed through the door.

"Was this you? Why are you doing this to her? She’s not like you, Erica. She didn't grow up in a mansion with a silver spoon. She’s just a girl trying to survive, and you're destroying her!"

"Stop it, Erica. Just stop."

I looked into his eyes—eyes full of disappointment and rage—and I actually felt a laugh bubble up.

"Have you eaten yet?" I asked, smiling through the tears that were finally starting to fall.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand.

In the background of the tablet, the crowd’s jeers grew louder. Nathan’s expression hardened. He told me to end the "charade."

I looked at him defiantly. "And if I don't?"

"Then don't expect me to be kind. Your family is gone, Erica. You have no one else. Where else are you going to go?"