Then she said, clearly enough for the cameras to catch every word, “You should have asked that before you threw me out.”
Liam flinched.
Khloe’s mouth parted.
Olivia turned back to Ethan.
“I’ll take the ride,” she said.
He nodded once and helped her into the car without touching more than the edge of the door.
As the car pulled away, Olivia looked through the rain-streaked window. Liam stood on the curb, surrounded by flashes, no longer the king of the room, no longer the man controlling the narrative.
Just a man in a tuxedo watching the woman he discarded leave with the one thing his money could not buy.
Dignity.
By morning, New York had sharpened the story into a weapon.
CEO’s Ex-Wife Arrives Pregnant at Plaza Gala While He Flaunts Model Girlfriend.
Hayes Vision Launch Overshadowed by Explosive Personal Scandal.
Billionaire’s Pregnant Ex Breaks Internet With Silent Entrance.
Olivia read none of the articles at first.
She woke at six in her small Brooklyn apartment with a dull ache in her lower back and the taste of metal in her mouth. The radiator hissed beside the window. A delivery truck rumbled below. Her phone pulsed on the nightstand like a trapped insect.
Three hundred missed calls.
Texts from former colleagues.
Messages from journalists.
Voice notes from women she had not spoken to since the divorce but who suddenly remembered loving her.
One text from Liam.
Please call me.
Then another.
I didn’t know.
Then another.
Olivia, please. We need to talk privately.
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