“Oh, dear, someone’s in a mood.” She removed her legs from my desk, dumping her ugly secondhand Prada bag on top of my laptop. I resisted the urge to hurl her out of my window. I doubted it would win me any points with my wife. “I’m afraid things are about to go from bad to worse.”

“I sincerely doubt there’s room for deterioration,” I lunged back.

“Then I’m here to prove you the sky is the limit, baby.” She plucked something from her bag—a stack of papers—and slid it across my desk with her pointy scarlet fingernail. “You’ve been served.”

I didn’t touch the papers. I glanced down and saw my wife’s handwriting. Curvy. Romantic. Small. Like her.

For a second, the temptation not to feel was overwhelming.

To laugh it off.

To kick Emmabelle out.

To show her that I didn’t care.

Then I remembered it was exactly why I had to fight to get my wife back.

“The answer is no,” I said mildly, cracking my knuckles under the table. “I told Persephone divorce wasn’t an option. It is tacky, brings bad press, and besides, she’s yet to fulfill her part of the bargain.”

“You realize you’re not God, right?” Emmabelle cocked her head sideways. “You can’t just snap your fingers and make people fall in line.”

I stared at her. “Prove it.”

“She doesn’t want you anymore.”

“I can change her mind.”

“What makes you think that?” Belle grinned, her eyes glittering.

“She wanted me before I even tried. Now that I intend to make an effort, she won’t be able to resist me. Either way, we both know you’re walking out of here with the divorce petition if I have to fucking feed it to you. This has no legal ground. You’re not the sheriff, and I’m not a guy you can push around. If it comes to court, I’ll ask the judge for couple’s therapy—and will receive it—seeing as we’ve been married for a short period and no adultery or abuse has occurred.”

“That’s what I thought.” Emmabelle chuckled, withdrawing the papers from my desk and tucking them back into her bag. “Look, I’m not your biggest fan for numerous reasons. At the top of them is the fact you planned to lock my baby sister in a suburban McMansion and have her produce heirs for you while you stayed here and lived the big life. But I’ve come to accept that, despite your sociopathic shortcomings, you’ve truly grown to love her. Am I right?”

There were many offensive things on the tip of my tongue, but Emmabelle had the advantage today. I had to let her have her day in the sun, even if I wanted to burn her down.

“Yes,” I agreed sullenly. “I love your sister very much.”

So much it goddamn fucking hurts.

“Well, maybe it’s time to tell her how you feel.” Belle stood, scooping her bag and hurling it over her shoulder. “You’ve been apologizing for the wrong thing the entire time. Persephone didn’t leave you because you’re an asshole. Heck, I’m sure it’s half of your charm. She left you because she thinks you’re incapable of feeling. Prove her wrong.”

“How the hell can I do that, seeing as I’m not supposed to see her?”

“Says who?” She blinked in surprise.

“Says her,” I growled. “She told me not to come after her.”

“Since when do you listen to what my sister says? One of the very things she loves about you is that you do whatever the hell you want. Always.”

Of course, the one time I decided to obey, it was to the wrong fucking instruction.

My sister-in-law tapped my shoulder as she exited my office.

“Go get her. She’s waiting, and I’m growing tired of taking my flings back to their apartments because she’s in my bed.”

It was time to break one more promise.

“There’s a cloud in our backyard!” Dahlia, one of my students, gasped, pointing her chubby finger out the window behind me.

“Whoa!” Reid’s tar eyes rounded, his pupils dilating like two splashes of ink. “That is one giant, humongous cloud.”

“Now, friends,” I said from over the rim of the book I was reading. They sat around me on the colorful alphabet carpet. The fog outside distracted them. “Crisscross applesauce. Everybody sit down and pay attention to the story. We need to finish reading about Paddington attending the Busy Bee Adventure Trail before we can play outside.”

“Collecting B-words is b-o-r-r-i-n-g!” Noah spelled the word wrong, tossing his limbs about the carpet in frustration. “Mommy says teachers are not very smart, or they wouldn’t be teachers. I want to play with the giant cloud!”

Well, Noah, Mommy is a B for bitc…

“Please!” Dahlia cried.

“Oh, Ms. Persy!” Reid whined.

The kids swarmed me, crawling onto my lap while pressing their palms together pleadingly. “Please, please, please can we play with the cloud? The nice man wants us to join him so badly. Look at him playing all by himself.”

The nice man?

Playing with himself?

Thinking now was a great time to call the police and make use of my pepper spray, I whipped my head, my jaw slacking.

My husband—who according to Belle refused the divorce papers yesterday and kicked her out of his office—was standing in Little Genius’ backyard, sleeves rolled, hair tousled, one knee on the ground as he created a huge, white, solitary cloud that floated above his head. It was the size of a hot air balloon. Big and fluffy and white. My eyes darted to the ground. How did he make it?

I spotted a metal tray, a stirrer, a match, and a Mason jar scattered underneath him.

We stared at each other wordlessly through the glass wall.

The book slipped from my fingers. I felt the herd of kids as they ran past me, dashing to the window, pressing their sticky fingers and noses to the glass as they squealed excitedly.

Avoiding my husband was no longer an option.

He brought me a cloud.

He brought me Auntie Tilda.

My legs carried me to the glass wall. He walked over, meeting me behind the thin barrier.

I put my hand on the glass. Cillian mirrored the action, our fingertips touching through the wall.

“I told you not to come here.” I swallowed hard.

“I told you a lot of things I regret,” he answered. “I hope maybe what you said was one of yours.”