Aaron Adams Facebook ad: “Addictive Romance Novels, Read Right Now”

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With a single click, I transferred every privilege I’d held for ten years as the perfect wife to my husband’s true love, Blair. The login for the family’s shared calendar. The contact email for the twins’ private school. The admin account for the family’s charity foundation. Then I turned off my phone and started grinding through LSAT questions. The next day, my husband, Nate, called, just as I knew he would. He was already roaring when I answered. “Mara! Why was June’s application rejected? Who canceled Oliver’s riding lesson? Where the hell are you?” I looked out at the manicured grounds of our Lake Forest estate, my voice flat. “Nate, as of today, your house, your children, and your Blair are your problem.” “Have you lost your mind?” I hadn’t. In my last life, I poured everything I had into this family, only to have my life destroyed by him and the woman who was, it turned out, his legal wife. My own children pointed at me and spat, “You were just a tool.” This time, I wanted no part of it. I hung up and circled the application deadline for law school. This job as an unpaid wife? I quit. … After I ended the call, the ensuing silence was bliss. It didn’t last ten minutes. From downstairs came the familiar roar of Nate’s Porsche, followed by the violent slam of a car door. I could practically picture him yanking at his tie, his handsome face a mask of fury as he stormed through the foyer. Sure enough, I soon heard the new nanny whispering in the kitchen. “Mr. Whitaker’s in a terrible mood… and the missus has been like a different person lately.” “You didn’t hear? That foundation gala last Saturday? Mrs. Whitaker spent three months planning it. Then Mr. Whitaker took the kids to the press area to pose for photos with that Miss Blair. That gala was her baby. Who wouldn’t snap?” Expressionless, I closed the LSAT logic games workbook. See? Everyone knew. Everyone could see that Blair Rourke—my husband’s old flame, the woman living openly in our home while she “recovered”—was inching her way into the space that was supposed to be mine. Only Nate kept pretending nothing had changed. The study door flew open. Nate’s tall frame filled the doorway, radiating anger. He slammed his car keys onto my desk with a sharp crack. “Mara, what the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his face tight with irritation. “June’s application was sent back—the school said the family information was incomplete. Oliver’s riding lesson was canceled, and the coach called my office directly. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me in front of my board?” I met his gaze calmly, as if looking at a stranger making an unreasonable scene. “I transferred access for every relevant account to you yesterday. Nate, they’re your children. These things should have been your responsibility all along.” “My responsibility?” His brows shot up, as if I’d just said something absurd. “I handle hundred-million-dollar deals. You think I have time for this trivial nonsense? Mara, this is a family. It’s your job to uphold its dignity.” Dignity. Always dignity. A cold smile touched my lips. “My responsibility? Funny. I thought my responsibility was to run an entire charity gala by myself while you took the children to stand with your ‘soulmate’ for the cameras, forcing me to smile at every guest and explain that my husband had been ‘called away unexpectedly.’” Nate’s face darkened, but he quickly smoothed over his anger. His tone softened, slipping into the same old script. “Mara, you know Blair just finished her treatment. She needs support. I’m just doing what’s decent. We’re a family. I don’t want to fight over something this petty. Think of the children.” There it was. For the children. In my last life, that single phrase had been my prison. Before I could speak, the study door burst open again. My daughter, June—eleven years old, cheeks flushed—stormed in, clutching a stack of crumpled construction paper. “Mom! Why didn’t......

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