It had been three days since I left the man I loved sleeping in our king-sized bed and walked out the door. I think about him waking up and finding that note more times than I can count.

Was his jet-black hair tousled in that sleepy, adorable way it always was when he first got up? Did he stand there scratching the beard that I loved to feel on my cheeks as he kissed me? Did those gray eyes go stormy with anger?

Those are the images that kill me the most. My husband (ex-husband?) looks like a buff, beautiful deep-sea fisherman … one who hails from the island of Nantucket. When we first started dating, I have to say that my heart shocked as if it was being resuscitated each time I saw him. It wasn’t possible for someone to be so gorgeous and rugged at the same time. And over time, those muscled arms and beard-covered cheeks became my safe place.

For three days, the man who was once my safe place called and texted while I silenced my phone, guilt and heartbreak ricocheting through my body like bullets puncturing each organ.

Of course, I didn’t want to give up. Of course I wanted to go home. But … I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t look at his disappointed, sympathetic face day after day. I couldn’t stand to see him unhappy, and not speak up about it, because he was living the life that my family laid out for us.

This was for his own good as well as mine.

Back when I’d told my parents I was going to marry Theo, a guy who they thought was just a summer fling, they had gone through the roof. Yelling and screaming, passive aggressive comments, and even threats. What happened, in the end, was my future at our family company being cut out, as if I was a cancer they needed to destroy.

Of course, they didn’t excise every part of my role in the Weston dynasty. Oh no, they couldn’t have a mark against their name by ex-communicating a daughter. No, they just took away my shares and the position that was promised to me while keeping my husband and me under their thumb so they could take us out at parties and show us off.

I’d given up becoming the Director of People at Weston Shipping Enterprises when I’d decided to marry Theo. And now that we were separating, I wanted my rightful place back.

“Ms. Walsh, please do come in. Your mother is in her sitting room, and your father is out of town.”

Gamila, the housekeeper whom my parents had employed since before my birth, opened the door to their Hyannis Port mansion. They owned an entire compound on a private beach, and the home was one that had been preserved as a national landmark. It would become a museum, equipped for tours and everything when they eventually died.

“Thank you, Gamila. And as I’ve told you plenty of times, Imogen is fine. I hope you’re doing well; did you get home at all this summer?”

Her family, including two adult daughters with families of their own, all lived in the Dominican Republic. I never thought about it growing up, but more and more, I couldn’t grasp the fact that she had been separated from them for most of their lives. The sacrifice she made to provide for her family was one of absolute gut-wrenching sadness. Yet, here she was, serving my family and never making a peep about it.

How much had I begun to see the disgusting excess of our wealth since I’d married Theo? Too much, perhaps.

“Oh no, Ms. Walsh, it be too busy with your parents on Nantucket. I’ll sure find time, though.”

I nodded, although I wasn’t sure she would. Walking through the grand foyer, into the library and around the hallway leading to the east wing, my mind begins to wander.

I grew up in this house and never thought twice about its chilly insincerity. This was a temple, a shrine to wealth … not a home. Not like the one I’d made with Theo, where oversized couches and Friday night pizza making reigned supreme. I wouldn’t have that anymore, and I swallowed the spiky ball of pain that had been sitting in my throat since the morning I left that home we’d built together.

“Mother?” I called out when I reached the doorway of her sitting room.

Equipped with a baby grand piano, which she could barely even play, and shelves of her favorite books and artwork, my mother’s sitting room was an unnecessary show of feminine excess. And there she sat in the middle of it.

“Oh, Imogen, dear, I had no idea you were coming. What an unexpected surprise.” She rose, her elegance already wafting across the room.

I should tell you that I didn’t dislike my parents. They were always kind to my brothers and me, had given us anything we ever wanted. They didn’t cheat on each other, as far as I knew, and there were no horrible family secrets they were keeping. They were simply … cold. They’d grown up with money and had that same detached parenting style that their own parents had groomed them in. I knew they loved my brothers, Alfie and Winston, and me, but in their own way.

So I’m not surprised when my mother doesn’t mention that it’s a nice surprise. “Sorry to sneak up on you, I just … wanted to come home.”

“Well, I would hardly call this your home. You haven’t lived here in five years.”

Ever the factual person, my mother is not giving one ounce of warmth to the situation. I wish, idly, that she could be more like some of the mothers you see on TV shows. The ones who have a tray of homemade cookies always waiting or are there to lend a shoulder to cry on. I know that she’s done her best, but it doesn’t stop me wishing that I had the type of parents … the type of parents I always hoped Theo and I would be to a child.

I sigh, sitting in a leather wingback chair that probably cost more than a moderately priced car. I was never more educated in the ridiculous amounts of money my family spent until I met Theo. Buying a sixteen-thousand-dollar armchair, or a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car, was my normal. I was brought up in it, so I never knew anything different. Then my husband came into the picture and actually shot milk out of his nose in utter shock one morning when I told him I’d bought us a new stove for the kitchen at a great price of forty-five thousand dollars. He had thought I was insane, or that I was trying to pull some joke on him.

That moment, while educational, also showed me just how different our lives had truly been. Being with Theo expanded my mind to things that just were never shown in my world. Manual labor, saving money, being thrifty, managing my own bills, and just generally learning to do things for myself. Being married to Theo meant growing up, in all senses.

“Is there … something bothering you?” My mother inches closer to me, cautiously, as if I might just tell her how I’m feeling.

Westons don’t really discuss feelings. The WASP way is to just dust everything under a one-of-a-kind Persian rug and smile a close-lipped grin. Emotions were too messy and were not ever in-style or on the schedule.

“This morning, I left Theo. I’m going to ask him for a divorce.” Just saying that final word made my skin crawl and my stomach turn over.

Divorce. They should call it death because that’s what it felt like to say that word. The final nail in the coffin of my marriage.

My mother actually rears back, her cup of tea sloshing. She is trained enough not to speak out of turn. No, she has to compose herself before she allows any words to come out of her mouth.

And the ones that do surprise the hell out of me. “In the Weston family, we do not attract spectacle. We appear strong and united on the public front. If there are problems, those are hidden in the closet or the pantry. We don’t air our dirty laundry to those who could attack a weak point. No, you will not be getting divorced, Imogen. At least, not on your terms.”

My mouth falls open, and a scoff-like cough bellows from my throat. “Excuse me? I’m not getting a divorce to shame the family, Mother.”

“Well, you certainly didn’t take into account what it would do to the Weston name when you married that common man. Your father and I had to do damage control for months before and after your wedding. If you insist on putting us through public humiliation as you tarnish the Weston name with divorce, from a man who will be after your money, no doubt, you’ll do as we say.”

Her voice slaps me, leaving my cheeks burning with the shame and anger that heats my entire body. In one sentence, she’s insulted my marriage, my husband, my heartbreak, and essentially, me. I shouldn’t have expected more.

Except I’d opened this door. Now, she would go to my father, and the two of them would start plotting on how my divorce would play out to paint the family in the best light. They would smear Theo’s name. They would no doubt make me do things that I’d question, that were morally wrong.

But they were my family. I was no longer going to be a Walsh.

And as much as I tried to deny that I needed their brand of love, their approval, their protection … I was always going to come back into the Weston fold.