I stood frozen at the front gate of our mansion in Beverly Hills, one trembling hand resting against my stomach while the other gripped a white envelope.
Inside were divorce papers.
Lying on top of my suitcase were the house keys.
My husband of eleven years, Ryan Montgomery, had left them there as if he were returning a life that no longer had any value.
Laughter drifted from inside the house.
Not nervous laughter.
Not surprised laughter.
The comfortable, cruel kind that comes from people who believe they’ve already won.
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