<b>Chapter </b><b>1 </b>


    Once again, I’dnded Camden’s precious little girlfriend in the hospital.


    This time, he didn’t pull his usual routine–rushing back from whatever business trip to smooth–talk me into backing down and sweep everything under the rug.


    Instead, he FaceTimed me.


    “Next month’s her birthday. I promised I’d marry her before I hit thirty.”


    “You’ve been throwing your tantrums long enough, Sage.”


    Message received: quit screwing with them, time to divorce.


    I stared at the disaster zone that used to be our lovable living room–a bitterugh bubbled up.


    “Not happening, asshole!”


    I hung up the phone.


    Then went straight to that bitch’s new restaurant and trashed the whole damn ce.


    You think you can just have your fun and walk away?


    Sorry babe, now sit back and enjoy MY fucking show!


    Camden Ashworth and I had been married for six years.


    He’d been keeping his little pet for five of them.


    The whole thing was almostughable. Almost.


    We were Malibu royalty–the kind <b>of </b>power couple that ended up in Vanity Fair spreads about “America’s Most Influential Young Elite.”


    But barely one year into our fairy tale marriage, Camden cheated on me.


    And this chick? Three years older than him. A culinary school dropout running some hipster gastropub in Silver Lake.


    When I first found out, I’d rolled up to her little farm–to–table joint with my girls. We redecorated the ce with flying


    dishware.


    Quickly, Camden showed up.


    13:25


    Hell Yeah, Forget the Other Woman, My Smart House Was Cheating On <b>Me</b><b>!</b>___


    26.8<b>% </b>


    But he didn’t rush tofort his sobbing little side piece first.


    His eyes found me.


    Exhaustion. Disappointment.


    “Sage, enough with the drama.”


    I couldn’t process it.


    How was I losing to some wannabe food blogger with a nose piercing?


    “I had this brutal acid reflux attack after that merger dinner. Thought I was dying. You were already crashed out from your girls‘ trip, didn’t want to wake you… She saw me hunched over in the parking lot. Brought me homemade bone soup. Stayed up making sure I was okay.”


    Something flickered in Camden’s eyes that I hadn’t seen since long before.


    “First time anyone’s made me soup.”


    Camden hadworked and d–handed his way to the C–suite. All those client dinners had turned his stomach into a


    battlefield.


    But seriously? He got swept away by bone soup?


    Our live–in chef had been making him custom anti–inmmatory smoothies every morning for years–recipes I’d


    gotten from that wellness guru in Tulum, the one with the six–month waiting list.


    Six years of that, and it meant less than one jar of hipster soup from his side piece?