Chapter 1

Miranda

It’s been months since I’ve seen him—a lonely few months—and now here he is. The long, mahogany table is the only thing between us ... and our attorneys, of course. Three sets of original documents pass back and forth between all parties ... sign where the sticky arrow points to your name ... Decree of Divorce ... Equitable Division of Assets ... Irreconcilable Differences.

“’Til death do us part,” we both promised the day we became man and wife, and I’m sure he would have held up his end of the bargain but with a few added clauses. Like the part about forsaking all others. That was valid until the first affair. Honor and obey only took precedent on my part, never his. One can only be a good wife if she has a good husband, which I obviously did not, or we wouldn’t be sitting here today, me looking at him as if he were the last person in the world I’d want to be with and vice versa.

Since I’ve already read everything twice—as well as my lawyer—I don’t waste any time placing the pen to the paper, signing all three copies. Ten years of marriage dissolved as soon as the ink dries. Lucky for me, I’ve spent the last couple weeks crying my eyes out awaiting this day; I’m fairly sure my tear ducts are broken, so no tears from me today. If anything, the impartial look on his face infuriates me. I mean, the asshole had the audacity to ask his attorney to require I change my last name as part of the divorce.

No, sir. Not happening. I spent a over a decade—additional time served while we were dating—working my ass off, earning the Hathaway name, no way in hell I’m giving it back without a fight. He wants to remarry, that’s fine, but she’s going to be the second Mrs. Hathaway.

“Is that everything?” I ask without emotion, masking my pain.

“I do believe so. Your attorney will receive your copy as soon as it’s signed by the judge. The arbitrator will file one with the county. Effective immediately, Mr. Hathaway should schedule to have the last of his belongings removed from the property now owned by Ms. Hathaway. Also, per the decree, Mr. Hathaway has twenty-four hours to surrender the keys and title to the Mercedes and prepare a wire transfer of half the liquid assets to Ms. Hathaway’s bank account noted on file.” The poor secretary looks as if she’s done this a time or two, actually getting everything out in just a few breaths without making eye contact with either Ben or me.

“Wonderful. I’ll let my attorney know if Benjamin is late on any of the demands so we can seek further damages,” I say over my shoulder as I slip into my gray pea-coat and push my auburn hair to one side, making sure Ben notices me staring at him.

Cheating husbands, I tell ya, are the dumbest bunch around. I’m sure he thought after the first time I caught him, he’d get a free pass to whip his dick out anytime he saw a pretty, young thing bat an eye in his general direction. Little did he know, behind the tears and depression he caused, I became more jaded, untrusting. Every single indiscretion was saved as evidence to ensure when I finally decided to leave him—having had enough—I’d get just about everything.

Now, when he starts over with Katie, or Mandie, Tasha, Amie, Angie—whatever her name is this week—he starts from scratch. No house. No money. No fancy car. Just his job, debt, and an alimony payment out the ass. Let’s see how many of those tarts are willing to be with him when he’s nothing like he was when we first started dating. Vindictive, sure, but what else do you expect? For me to sit back and watch him live happily ever after while I’m pulling together the pieces of my life—the one I built? Nope.

“I’ll see you out, Ms. Hathaway,” the secretary says softly. I genuinely smile at her but decline the offer. It’s much more gratifying to walk out of here on my own, just how I walked in.

Putting a little extra swing in my hips, I sashay down the long, marble-tiled hall, purposefully letting my expensive heels—the ones I bought this morning with his credit card—click loudly the entire way to the elevator, which is magically open and waiting for me. The moment the doors close, my bravado slips, and my shoulders sag as I let out the breath I’d been holding, my tears threatening to spill.

I’m sure the cuntmuffin is waiting downstairs for him, ready to jet off for some elaborate getaway to celebrate his divorce. I’m also sure she’s not older than twenty-five with perky tits, a matching ass, and a peppy little attitude to accompany her perfect life. I don’t know this one—not that she’s different from the rest—but I hate her.

I hate she’s going to get her hands on what I spent nearly half my life—my entire adult life—building for Ben. She wasn’t there to push him through school, make sure he applied for all the right jobs and accept only what would drive him forward. Had it not been for me, Ben would still be a substitute teacher, not the renowned professor he is today.

Brick by brick, I built that man. Too bad for me those bricks were mine. He’s the tall, beautiful building while I’m the one scheduled for demolition. It won’t take him long to recover from this setback. After all, he is a Hathaway. One call to mommy and daddy and he’ll be set back up just as pretty as he was when we were together. I’m sure his parents will help him get a new place, but the overly conservative pair won’t be financing any Caribbean adventures for him and ... not his wife.

Only this time—and this is where I get a little too excited—he wouldn’t have earned it. Our entire life, we earned. He didn’t want a handout from his excessively wealthy parents, nor did I, so we worked our asses off. That’s why I’m able to not feel guilty he’s going to have to take back his word to make it on his own ... because he did, and he failed. I didn’t. I deserve all of it. I stayed true and honored my word and my vows.

As I make my way through the parking garage, I can’t stop laughing to myself. Caught up in my own grief, I totally spaced a moment ago—there won’t be any getaways for the next ex-Mrs. Hathaway. Or a house to redecorate to her specific tastes. There won’t be anything at all because it’s mine.

“Oh, Benjamin, you poor little thing,” I giggle to myself. I’m sure I look like a crazy mess to anyone watching the surveillance in the secured area, but I really couldn’t care less. He gets the slut and I get ... me.

When I get in the car, I hit the ignition button and the engine fires to life. Using my Bluetooth, I dial Nikki, my best friend.

“Are you okay?” she answers.

“I will be,” I respond honestly. I can joke to myself all day long, but at the end of the day, my marriage ended with a few signatures. Years came down to drying ink on a slip of paper to file with the county. If that’s not sad, I don’t know what is.

“You’re damn right you will be. You’re Miranda fucking Hathaway, the sexiest woman in the world. And you have the hottest best friend, too. You can’t go wrong Mi-Mi.”

“I love you. Have I told you that lately?”

“Every single day,” she coos. “What are you doing now?”

“Figured I’d go home, watch a movie or something.”

“Negative. You’ll come straight to my place. We have plans.”

“Since when?”

“Since now!” Nikki squeals. “Dinner. Me and you. It’s a date. Got it?”

“Yeah.” I sigh, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out of this. She’ll just show up at my house and drag me out, regardless of my appearance. Might as well go with my pride intact. “I’ll be there. Give me an hour. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”

“Okay. Love you. Drive safely, single lady.”

The call disconnects and I turn on the radio. Scrolling through my phone to put on my “Woe is Me” playlist, Ben saunters into the parking garage with his phone glued to his ear and a smug smile on his face. I switch gears on my musical selection and choose my current favorite song, “Runaway” by Kanye West. Trust me, I hate Kanye, but the words to the song are perfect. Too perfect, actually.

Rolling my window down a little, I crank the volume and fast forward to the chorus as I pull out of my parking spot. As I pass by Ben, he glances my way and nods his head. I kindly tell him “fuck you” with my finger, singing loud and proud. I toast the douchebags, the assholes, the jerkoffs, the scumbags ... every one of them!

He had a good girl but was addicted to the hoodrats. It happens, I suppose. To the weak-and-insignificant-in-the-grand-scheme-of-things people. Anyone with any sort of intelligence or respect for themselves would never do what he did to me. He’s pathetic. The more I think about it, the luckier I feel. Sure, my eyes hurt from the crying, but I don’t have to crawl into bed tonight with a man who smells like another woman. Those days are long fucking gone.

His smile fades and mine surfaces. “Have a nice life, asshat. Make sure to transfer my money within twenty-four hours. If it’s a second late, you’re fucked,” I holler as I make the last turn, then he’s out of my sight.

Deciding I like this music better than the Adele I had planned, I stick with the “My Husband’s a Cheating Bitch” mix, belting out angry songs, one after the next.

Kanye blends to Alanis. “You Oughta Know” changes to “’Tis a Pity She Was a Whore.” Bowie to Chris Brown. On and on, the playlist continues. Before I know it, I’m pulling into Nikki’s driveway. I do, however, wait until “Deuces” comes to an end and my voice is hoarse. Nikki better have booze; I should start with a little whiskey and honey to soothe my vocal chords because I have a feeling I’m not done singing tonight. There’s more in me and I’m getting it out, dammit.

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