Too Late For My Ex-Husband's Regret

a P

e dead silence of suburban Boston townhouse. I gripped my thin cashmer

hat made me shiver. My husband, Brennan Hurley strode inside in his cus

usband's temper and looked past his broad shoulders at

ht knit dress that made no sense in a Boston blizzard. She had tugged the necklin

own home like a trophy, showing m

s, digging my nails deep into

eavy coat, and draped it carefully over Brittny's bare shoulders. He wrapped his large, cal

he asked, his voice dr

y-blue contacts, her eyes full of smug challenge. She placed both

before I could even look away, Brenn

I was trash in my own home. He reached into his briefcase, pull

The bold black title on the top page - Divorc

pants pocket. "Sign it. My PR team

s. He wanted me to take the blame for our split so he could marry his pregnant mistress without triggering the mo

sign the divorce papers. But playing along wi

laugh. He stepped closer, his tal

Aria?" He jabbed a finger hard into my shoulder.

his grandfather had pulled me out of a fatal rink-side collapse, and that

r and grabbed Brennan's arm. Her eyes tur

with Aria because of me," she

with his, his expression twisting w

save me after my car crash," Brennan said coldly. "N

ve shirt lay the faded red scar from a living kidney transplant - the kidn

shing the edge of the div

peated, my voice like ice. "Eve