My Ex-Husband Ruined Every Man Who Wanted Me

Adrianna Elliott wore power like perfume. Expensive. Unmistakable. The kind that announced itself before she entered a room.

She entered the quarterly happy hour at 6:47 p.m., late enough to make an entrance, early enough to claim the best position at the bar. She wore black. She always wore black. It made everything else look like it was trying too hard.

I stood three feet away with a glass of wine I wasn't drinking and watched her move through the crowd like she owned the oxygen.

She found Clayton near the windows.

Of course she did.

He was talking to someone from finance. She touched his arm. Light. Casual. The kind of touch that said *I belong here*. He glanced down. Said something. She laughed.

My chest tightened.

I looked away. Took a sip of wine. It tasted like nothing.

Sandra appeared at my elbow. "You okay?"

"Great."

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

"You're staring like you want to set something on fire."

I turned. Walked toward the bar. Ordered another glass I wouldn't finish.

When I turned back, Adrianna's hand was still on his sleeve. She was leaning in now. Saying something that required proximity. He wasn't leaning away.

I moved without thinking.

Three steps. Four.

I walked directly into a glass partition.

The impact was loud. My forehead hit first. Then my nose. The wine sloshed out of the glass and onto my shirt.

The room went quiet.

I stepped back. Blinked. My eyes were watering.

Barrett materialized beside me. "Jesus. You okay?"

I nodded. My face was hot. My forehead was throbbing.

He took the glass from my hand and set it on a table. Then he disappeared and returned thirty seconds later with a bar towel full of ice.

"Here," he said, pressing it gently to my forehead. "Hold that."

I held it.

He didn't ask what I'd been looking at. Didn't make a joke. Just stood there with his hand steadying mine until the room started moving again.

"Thanks," I said.

"Anytime." He smiled. Not his usual grin. Something quieter. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

I wasn't.

I left ten minutes later.

The next morning, there was a small tube of arnica cream on my desk.

No note. No name. Just the tube, placed precisely in the center of my keyboard.

I picked it up. Turned it over. It was the expensive kind. The kind you had to go out of your way to find.

Sandra appeared at the partition. She looked at the tube. Then at me.

"That man is not over you," she said quietly.

I said nothing.

She left.

I sat down. Opened my laptop. Put the tube in my desk drawer.

I used it that night. And the next. And the one after that.

I told myself it was practical.

I told myself it didn't mean anything.

I told myself a lot of things.

On Thursday, Clayton called me into his office.

I knocked on the open door. He looked up.

"Come in," he said. "Close the door."

I stepped inside. The door clicked shut.

He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat.

He slid a folder across the desk. "Pacific Northwest rebranding campaign. We just landed it. It's the highest-stakes project this quarter."

I opened the folder. Skimmed the brief. My pulse quickened.

"This is huge," I said.

"Yes."

"Who's leading?"

He looked at me. "We are."

I stopped reading.

"Co-leads," he said. "You and me. We'll present to the client together. Strategy, execution, everything."

I set the folder down. "Why me?"

"Because you're good at this."

"There are other people who are good at this."

"Not like you."

I looked at him. He looked back. Steady. Unreadable.

"This is a bad idea," I said.

"Probably."

"We can't work together like this."

"We already are."

I stood. "I need to think about it."

"Okay." He leaned back. "You have until tomorrow."

I left.

I didn't need until tomorrow.

I knew I was going to say yes.

The first strategy session was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. Thursday in Conference Room C.

I arrived at 6:58 p.m. Clayton was already there. Laptop open. Sleeves rolled up. Two coffees on the table.

He slid one toward me. "Oat milk. One pump vanilla."

I sat down. Took the cup. Didn't say thank you.

We worked for two hours without stopping. He asked questions that made me think three steps ahead. I challenged assumptions he hadn't questioned. We built the strategy skeleton in ninety minutes.

It felt like the early years of our marriage.

When everything was easy because we were building something together.

At 9:15 p.m., I said something about the target demographic that contradicted his positioning.

He disagreed.

I pushed back.

He pushed harder.

"You're wrong," I said.

"I'm not."

"You're thinking about what they want. I'm thinking about what they need."

"They're the same thing."

"They're not." I stood. Crossed to the whiteboard. Drew a diagram. "Look. If we position it this way—"

"It's too narrow."

"It's focused."

"It's limiting."

I turned. He was standing now. Three feet away.

"You're not listening," I said.

"I'm listening. You're not making sense."

My hands curled into fists. "I make perfect sense. You just don't want to admit I'm right."

"You're not right. You're stubborn."

"I'm thorough."

"You're inflexible."

I stepped closer. "Say that again."

He didn't move. "You are the most stubborn person I have ever loved."

The room went silent.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then I turned. Grabbed my bag. Left my coat on the chair.

I walked out of the building and into the cold Seattle night.

Six blocks home. No jacket. November wind cutting through my shirt.

I didn't stop.

I didn't look back.

I couldn't.

Because if I did, I would go back.

And I couldn't let myself go back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.