Trading A Diamond For Tap Water

Summary

I had been the leading lady in this "perfect wife" script for five years.

The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon in a penthouse suite at the St. Regis. I walked in to find Everett and his personal assistant together.

The girl—Megan—looked like a wreck. She was trembling, clutching a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses, her face a mask of panic as she stammered out an apology.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw my Birkin. I just looked at Everett and calmly asked for a divorce.