The Good Wife Quit

In the seventh year of my marriage to Adrian Sandford, his ex, Celine Wheeler, came back.

She posted: [We were young, reckless. We missed our shot. This time, I'm fighting for love.]

That night, Adrian sat on the balcony, cigarette burning between his fingers, staring out till sunrise.

My phone wouldn't stop buzzing either.

Their friend group—everyone who saw them grow up—flooded the chat. Regret for them. Relief, too.

They forgot I was still in there.

Adrian had no clue how many times I replayed the years I chased him.

Seven years.

I'm tired.

[Emily clawed her way up. How could she compete with Celine, the girl who sat next to him every day?]

At seventeen, I would've left the chat, grabbed Adrian's phone, deleted Celine, made him swear I was the only one.

But I'm twenty-seven now.

When I heard she was back, I stood in the kitchen, spatula in hand. It shook, just a little.

I flipped the egg. "Good."

Everyone knew how intense Celine and Adrian used to be.

Everyone also knew how bad I looked next to her.

The second my best friend Marie heard Celine was back, she showed up ready to fight.

"If Adrian brings her home, I'm going off."

I set breakfast on a porcelain plate and slid it to her. "She's too proud for something that tacky."

Showing up at a wife's house like she owned it? Lowest move.

But Celine wouldn't need to. Adrian would pick her anyway.

That's why I said I was worse.

Because I did exactly that.

I slipped in while they were fighting, taking advantage of the opening when neither of them would back down.

And I didn't just chase him. I took him like he was mine.

My phone buzzed. Adrian.

[Come with me to a banquet tonight.]

Celine would be there.

He hadn't been home in two days.

I turned off the screen, slid off my ring, and set it on the table.

I let out a dry smile. "Guess it's my turn to be the joke."