Chapter 4
There was enough land for the chickens I had once joked about raising when Julian and I retired.
I stood on that porch after the taxi disappeared down the road and listened to absolutely nothing.
No phones.
No assistants.
No reporters.
For the first time in years, nobody needed Mrs. Julian Mercer.
I wasn’t sure who Claire Bennett was anymore.
But I intended to find out.
That afternoon, photographs of us leaving court appeared online.
BILLIONAIRE JULIAN MERCER AND ACTRESS CLAIRE BENNETT FILE FOR DIVORCE.
My acting career had slowed years earlier when Julian’s companies began expanding. That had been my choice—or at least I had always told myself it was.
Commenters blamed me.
Others blamed him.
Some claimed I would change my mind once I remembered the lifestyle I was losing.
I laughed at that.
I had loved Julian when he couldn’t afford dinner.
Money had never been the reason I stayed.
That evening, my phone rang.
Julian.
I ignored it.
A message arrived seconds later.
Claire, we need to talk. Things are getting out of control.
I almost turned off the phone.
Then another notification appeared.
Unknown number.
It contained a photograph.
The young waitress from Charleston was walking through the front doors of Hawthorne Manor.
She carried two suitcases.
Beneath it were five words.
Your replacement just moved in.
I stared at the photograph for a long time.
My fingers were perfectly still.
Then I smiled.
Because Julian apparently believed the difficult part was over.
He had no idea our thirty days had only just begun.
Chapter 2: THE HOUSE I LEFT BEHIND
On the second morning of my separation, I woke at six because rain was tapping against the bedroom window.
For several seconds, I forgot where I was.
Then I remembered.
Julian.
The restaurant.
The photograph.
The suitcases.
Oddly, the pain came after the memory rather than with it.
A slow pressure beneath my ribs.
I made coffee and carried it onto the covered porch.
My phone had seventeen missed calls.
Four from reporters.
Three from friends.
Two from my agent.
Five from numbers I didn’t recognize.
Three from Julian.
I deleted every voicemail except his.
The first was controlled.
“Claire, call me.”
The second sounded irritated.
“This situation is being misrepresented.”
The third came after midnight.
“Please just call me.”
I didn’t.
Instead, I opened my laptop and reviewed the divorce agreement.
That was when I noticed something interesting.