Beside him, Florence smiled with a predatory glint in her eyes. She was thirty-five years old, wearing a vibrant red dress and a diamond bracelet, the kind of woman who mistook cruelty for confidence. Her hand rested on his arm like she already owned it.
I was sitting upright under a quilt, feeling thin from my recent surgery, my silver hair pinned back, my hands folded over the medical bills Wade had never bothered to open.
For forty-eight years, I had cooked his meals, hosted his demanding clients, raised our children, and stood beside him while he built Potter Enterprises from a tiny rented office into a regional empire.
Or rather, while we built it together.
But men like Wade rewrite history when they find someone young enough to believe their lies.
Florence glanced around my bedroom with a look of disdain. “Don’t worry, Erica, we will make sure you are comfortable somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” I asked, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
Wade sighed, clearly irritated by the sound of my voice. “A retirement apartment or assisted living facility, whatever the lawyers decide to finalize.”
I looked at the suitcases by the door, noting the two leather bags, his watch box, and the framed photo of our summer home in Maine. He was not just leaving me.
He was collecting trophies to take into his new life.
