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a P
e dead silence of suburban Boston townhouse. I gripped my thin cashmer
hat made me shiver. My husband, Brennan Hurley strode inside in his cus
usband's temper and looked past his broad shoulders at
ht knit dress that made no sense in a Boston blizzard. She had tugged the necklin
own home like a trophy, showing m
s, digging my nails deep into
eavy coat, and draped it carefully over Brittny's bare shoulders. He wrapped his large, cal
he asked, his voice dr
y-blue contacts, her eyes full of smug challenge. She placed both
before I could even look away, Brenn
I was trash in my own home. He reached into his briefcase, pull
The bold black title on the top page - Divorc
pants pocket. "Sign it. My PR team
s. He wanted me to take the blame for our split so he could marry his pregnant mistress without triggering the mo
sign the divorce papers. But playing along wi
laugh. He stepped closer, his tal
Aria?" He jabbed a finger hard into my shoulder.
his grandfather had pulled me out of a fatal rink-side collapse, and that
r and grabbed Brennan's arm. Her eyes tur
with Aria because of me," she
with his, his expression twisting w
save me after my car crash," Brennan said coldly. "N
ve shirt lay the faded red scar from a living kidney transplant - the kidn
shing the edge of the div
peated, my voice like ice. "Eve
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