I don’t love you.
Your job is to keep looking like a hot piece of ass and to hang on my arm when I need you to. Otherwise, stay the fuck out of my life.
Flinching at the memory, she got out the credit cards she’d only used for food and shelter at that point and went to methodically cut them to pieces, then thought fuck him. If he could shit on her dreams, if he could treat her like she was worthless trash, then he deserved all the pain she could dish out.
Sarah stood, washed her face, put on her best day dress, and slipped her feet into flats. Ready, she went on the shopping spree to end all shopping sprees. She wasn’t stupid; she’d been poor too long to be stupid. She bought the kind of clothes a woman would need if she was looking for work. Not skimpy dresses suitable for a rock star’s wife and formal gowns appropriate for music awards.
Simple skirts and pants, clean-cut but quality shirts that’d last, neat work dresses. She bought shoes to go with them.
She bought a fucking car because she needed a vehicle to navigate this sprawling city. It was a candy-apple-red MINI Cooper with a white top, cute and fast and so much more Sarah than the Jaguar that had always made her feel like an imposter. She bought jewelry, not because she wanted the jewelry, but because it was an asset she could put in a safe-deposit box and sell off if necessary.
She bought groceries, focusing on supplies that wouldn’t go bad for months or even years.
She bought meals for every homeless person she saw, bought double meals for the homeless teens.
And she withdrew cash as many times as possible.
The cards finally stopped working on the third day of her determined spree.
By that time she’d spent more than enough money to hopefully hurt Abe a little, but she knew it was nowhere near as badly as he’d hurt her. Again and again, she heard the words he’d thrown at her, felt the bruising pain of taking hit after hit, and she wanted him to shatter as he’d shattered her, but she didn’t know how to find the kind of pit bull she needed to make Abe feel as she was feeling.
It was then that her eye fell on the glossy black of the business card she’d kept, of the man who’d been so kind to her that horrible night. He’d been kind afterward too. The two weeks she’d been at the hotel, he’d ordered her room service, including a bowl of strawberries and cream that came with a handwritten note that said he hoped the strawberries made her day sweeter.
He’d rung once every day to check on her, and when she’d told him she was moving into the apartment, he’d insisted on driving her over himself. Since then, he’d stayed in touch with a call once a week. And though his eyes were admiring when they looked at her, he was always a perfect gentleman.
He made her feel like a woman worth respect. Not a cheap, gold-digging whore.
Picking up the phone, she dialed his number. “Jeremy,” she said. “Do you know the name of a good divorce attorney? A really mean one?”
A pause before Jeremy Vance said, “I know a man affectionately spoken of as the Rottweiler. Will that do?”
Sarah clenched her stomach, hardened her heart. “Yes.”
“I’ll call him for you if you like, set up an appointment. We’re friends, so you’re more likely to get in to see him that way than if you call yourself.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” Sarah made herself breathe.
Abe was getting no more of her tears.
“Anything for you, Sarah.” Jeremy’s tone was warm. “Would you like me to accompany you to the first meeting? I know you’re still fragile.”
Sarah went to say yes, shut her mouth. She was so scared, so alone, but she’d been that before, and she’d survived. Jeremy was nice, but Abe had been nice once too. The only person she could rely on was herself.
Same as always.
Her every breath hurt.
“No,” she said to Jeremy. “Thank you, but I’ll go alone.” And she’d make Abraham Bellamy rue the day he’d taken on a girl named Sarah Smith.
A girl who would’ve once carved out her own heart and laid it at his feet should he have asked it of her.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 3
SARAH SAT IN THE SOLARIUM of the lovely dual-level house she’d bought using part of the proceeds of her divorce settlement. Her knees were tucked up to her chest, her legs covered by a heavy knitted throw she’d found in a thrift shop; she cradled a mug of coffee in her hands while, beyond the window of the solarium, she could see the daisies she’d planted cheerfully bobbing their heads.
It had made her so happy to buy this house with its stylish appearance and neat gardens and delicate metal fencing. In a solid family neighborhood, nothing about it said that the woman who owned it had a de facto stepfather in prison for the murder of her mother.