Chapter 1: The Night Everything Shattered

At Derek Langley’s twenty-eighth birthday party, someone had the nerve to bring him a woman right in front of me. The jazz was cranked up too loud, the air sticky with perfume and old money, but all I could see was her—tall, elegant, and so obviously meant for him. It was like she’d been hand-delivered, and every pair of eyes in the room turned to watch what I’d do.

My stomach twisted, the glass cold and slick in my hand. I heard my own pulse pounding in my ears, louder than the music. Grandma Carol’s warning echoed in my head—never embarrass the family—but shame burned through me. As everyone stared, my shame curdled into something hotter, fiercer. I dropped my composure and smashed my wine glass against the floor.

The crash snapped the band into silence. Red wine and glass scattered across the hardwood, catching the chandelier’s light. Gasps rippled, phones poised for drama. For once, I didn’t care if Atlanta society had front row seats to my humiliation.

I moved out on my own with nothing but a suitcase and a T-shirt.

No screaming match, no dramatic plea. I left the glossy Langley mansion—marble halls echoing behind me, the air thick with the scent of overwatered roses. At midnight, I called a Lyft and sat quietly, suitcase across my lap, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out the jazz still ringing in my head.

The driver glanced back in the rearview. "You alright, miss?"

I swallowed. "Yeah, I’m fine," I lied, eyes glued to the shrinking mansion. The city lights blurred as we drove away, and for the first time, I wondered if I’d ever come back.

Bet she won’t last three days before she comes crawling back.

The whispers spread fast. Over cheese grits at the Buckhead Club, in Facebook mom groups, even among the ladies at the church rummage sale, everyone speculated that I’d return before my next Amazon Prime delivery. Atlanta loved a comeback story, especially if it involved a Langley.

Derek didn’t care either. A girl with no family—once she left the Langley family, where else could she go?

His indifference stung more than the rumors. To him, I was just a foster project Grandma Carol picked up—a charity case who never really fit. He figured I’d have nowhere to go without his name.

But three days passed, then more, and some wondered if I’d disappeared for good.

I stayed silent—no texts, no Instagram posts, not a single email. A few of Derek’s friends tried to check in, but I left them on read. The silence grew, and the rumors shifted from pity to curiosity. Had I run off to Europe? Gone off-grid? No one knew.

Only then did Derek call me for the first time.

My phone buzzed in the dark, his name lighting up the screen. It was the first time he’d called since our wedding night. I stared at it, thumb hovering over ‘Decline,’ my heart pounding. I let it ring out, letting the voicemail catch whatever apology he’d muster.

But he found my number was already disconnected.

I’d canceled the plan that morning, switched to a new SIM and a new number. For the first time, it felt like I’d really cut him off.

Later, at a well-known artist’s exhibition, a side-profile portrait made Derek lose his cool.

The gallery was packed, the air tinged with wine and fresh paint. Derek’s cologne—sharp, expensive—hit me before his voice did. He was there for networking, shaking hands and flashing his trademark smile. But he stopped cold in front of a painting: my side profile, sunlight on my cheek, eyes bright. He stared so long the gallery owner had to nudge him.

Without hesitation, Derek offered a sum that made Atlanta’s art collectors whisper.

He named a price high enough to make even the city’s old money blink. Some muttered it was just Langley money at work. Others wondered if he was losing it.

Jackson Monroe, the artist, smiled apologetically. “This is the portrait I’m most proud of—my wife. I can’t let it go.”

Jackson, usually so easygoing, was firm. His Southern drawl cut through the murmurs, his smile never wavering. The crowd’s curiosity doubled as Derek clenched his jaw and stalked away empty-handed.