The Divorce Rehearsal

I stared at my phone, the email from the Beverly Hills Arts Foundation glaring back at me. The words blurred together, but their meaning was crystal clear: I had been removed from the charity board I'd founded two years ago.

"We feel it best to restructure leadership during this transitional period," the email read. "Your contributions have been valued, but we must consider the foundation's public image."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to remind them that I had personally secured their largest donors, had organized every successful gala. Instead, I set the phone down. Julian's influence was everywhere—he'd made annual donations to most board members' pet causes, played golf with their husbands, offered free legal consultations.

"They can't just push you out," River said, looking over my shoulder at the email. "You built that foundation from nothing."

"They can, and they have." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. "The fall fundraiser gala I've been planning for months—they've canceled it. Apparently, my 'current situation' makes me a liability."

River's expression darkened. "Your 'current situation' being that your husband is a cheating asshole who's smearing your name across town?"

I managed a weak smile. "That's not how they're framing it."

My phone buzzed again—another email cancellation. This time, it was the women's empowerment luncheon where I'd been scheduled to speak next month. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"I need some air," I said, grabbing my purse. "Just a quick trip to Whole Foods. We need groceries anyway."

River looked concerned. "Want me to come with you?"

"I can handle grocery shopping alone, River." I tried to sound lighter than I felt. "I'm not completely broken."

But as I walked through the sliding doors of Whole Foods in Beverly Hills—a store I'd shopped at weekly for years—I immediately regretted coming. Patricia Winters and Diane Lowell, two women I'd hosted at my dinner table countless times, were examining produce near the entrance. They saw me. I know they did. Patricia's eyes widened slightly before she deliberately turned away, whispering something to Diane, who glanced at me with what could only be described as pity before they both moved quickly to another aisle.

I stood frozen, a shopping basket dangling from my arm. These women had sipped my wine, complimented my home, shared confidences with me. Now I was someone to avoid, a cautionary tale.

I forced myself to continue shopping, keeping my head high despite the whispers that seemed to follow me through the store. At the checkout, my hands trembled as I paid with cash—the only financial resource I had left after Julian froze our accounts.

Back in River's loft, my phone lit up with a text from Olivia Vance: *I think it's best if we take a break from our friendship right now. I don't want to take sides in what's happening between you and Julian. I'm sure you understand.*

I laughed bitterly. "Understand what? That loyalty is conditional? That friendship evaporates at the first sign of controversy?"

River took the phone from my hand and read the message. "Olivia always was a fair-weather friend."

"They all are, apparently." I sank onto the couch. "I've received six messages like that today. No one wants to be associated with the crazy, unstable ex-ballerina."

"Emmy," River said gently, "have you thought about reaching out to Madame Volkov? She always believed in you, even after your injury."

Madame Volkov had been my ballet instructor since I was twelve, a fierce Russian woman who had seen something in me that others missed. After my knee injury ended my career, she'd been devastated but supportive, insisting I still had value beyond my ability to dance.

"I'll call her," I agreed, needing to hear a friendly voice.

Madame answered on the second ring, her accented voice immediately soothing something raw inside me.

"Emilia, my dear girl. I've been thinking of you."

"You've heard, then?" I asked, my throat tight.

"Of course I've heard. This town talks of nothing else." She sighed heavily. "What that man is doing to you—it's despicable."

Tears pricked my eyes at her loyalty. "Thank you for saying that. Not many people are taking my side."

"People are cowards," she said bluntly. "Including myself, I'm afraid."

My heart sank. "What do you mean?"

"Julian's firm represents the ballet company, Emilia. He's threatened to withdraw financial support if I publicly defend you." Her voice broke slightly. "The company would not survive without his firm's backing. Many young dancers would lose their opportunities."

I closed my eyes, understanding completely. "You don't need to explain, Madame. I would never ask you to sacrifice the company."

"I am so sorry, my dear. I can support you privately, but publicly..." She trailed off, the implication clear.

"I understand," I whispered, though the isolation pressed down on me like a physical weight.

After we hung up, I sat in silence, staring at the wall. Julian had systematically cut off every support system I had—financial, social, professional. He was ensuring I had nowhere to turn, no one to validate my version of events.

I was jolted from my thoughts by River's curse. He was looking at his laptop, his expression grim.

"What is it?" I asked, though part of me didn't want to know.

"Paparazzi," he said, turning the screen toward me. "They must have followed you to Whole Foods."

The screen showed photos of me—hair unwashed, eyes red-rimmed, shoulders hunched—looking utterly broken as I exited the store. The headline read: "HARTLEY BREAKDOWN: Julian's Ex Spiraling As He Moves On With Glamorous New Love."

The article beneath was worse, filled with "anonymous sources" claiming I'd been emotionally unstable for years, that Julian had "tried everything" to help me before finally accepting the marriage couldn't be saved.

The final photo showed me crying in my car in the Whole Foods parking lot, my face contorted in pain. I didn't even remember breaking down—it had become so common, these moments of overwhelming grief that I moved through like a sleepwalker.

"They're following me," I whispered, a new kind of fear gripping me. "Watching me fall apart. Documenting it."

River closed the laptop. "We need to get you out of the public eye for a while. Somewhere they can't find you."

But even as he said it, a flash of light from the window caught my attention. I moved to the glass and peered down at the street below. A photographer stood on the corner, camera aimed directly at River's building.

There was nowhere to hide. Julian had made sure of that.

My phone rang—an unknown number. I almost didn't answer, but some instinct made me press accept.

"Emilia?" A warm, unfamiliar male voice. "This is Lex Monroe. River's friend. He asked me to call you."

I glanced at River, who nodded encouragingly.

"I understand you're going through a difficult time," Lex continued. "I might have a proposition that could help us both."

As he spoke, outlining a project that sounded impossible yet tantalizing, I watched the photographer on the street corner. He was still there, still waiting for my next moment of weakness.

But something in Lex's voice—something steady and genuine—made me think that maybe, just maybe, I might have found a way forward through the wreckage Julian had made of my life.