Page 50 of Best In Class (Savannah's Best #7)

Mia

M y last name might be Winter, but Aiden Winter and his parents, his sister, his brother, his…

well, all his family looks at me and treats me like I’m just taking up space, the same exact space they’d rather have their favorite family friend fill—a woman who is probably fertile, considering I am not.

I’d have never asked for a divorce, no matter how bad things got, except….

I love my husband. I thought I knew he loved me.

But that changed when I saw him kiss another woman.

Oh, he backed away immediately, had a whole, ‘ what have I done’ look on his face, but the genie was out of the fucking bottle.

“So, this is what it takes?” my best friend asks, as she gives me a measured look.

Katya isn’t a fan of Aiden or his family. She sees them as snobs who think that if your bank account doesn’t have a zillion zeroes, then you aren’t worthy of their time. She also sees Aiden as their enablers.

“They’d invite Ted Bundy over and treat him better than they do you if he came from money,” she once quipped.

“Not just money,” I corrected her, slurring my words because we’d finished a whole bottle of wine between us, “it has to be old money.”

“You sure this is how you want to do this?” she asks me, again, as she slides the divorce papers into a manila envelope.

We’re sitting at her dining table in her cute cottage just outside of Burlington. It has three bedrooms. I’ll be residing in one of them shortly, right after Christmas.

Katya and I grew up together.

When my parents died in an accident, her parents took me in. I was sixteen. I miss my parents every day, but Anya and Ivan made me their daughter in every way. So, Katya, in fact, is both my sister and best friend.

Losing Ivan three years ago was harder than when I lost my parents.

Anya now lives in an assisted living facility, a couple of hours from Burlington. Katya tried taking care of her, but early-onset dementia isn’t something that can be managed at home.

It’s progressive and heartbreaking.

Sometimes, Anya is lucid; most of the time, she isn’t.

Katya and I mourn the woman she was before the disease took over—and try to be grateful that she’s still with us, that there are moments where she knows us, when she reaches for Katya or me, and remembers our names. And then it’s gone, like the tide pulling back before we can even feel the wave.

Katya and I used to visit Anya once a week, though she mostly does it on her own. I have not been able to accompany her regularly. She understands that I have social responsibilities since I’m a Winter.

I can still hear Aiden say, “She’s not even your mother. I don’t understand why you have to go. This charity lunch is important to my parents, Mia.”

I didn’t argue. I stayed back.

I was weak and pathetic. So afraid to lose him that I just let go of myself.

No more!

“Yes, I’m sure. But use this.” I pull out an envelope from my tote. It’s gorgeous and golden—one Aiden gave me a card in, which simply said: 'Paris Vacation' two Christmases ago.

We still haven’t gone.

My husband is the CEO of Winter Financial, a hedge fund company that manages gazillions of dollars. His father, Nelson, is Chairman of the Board. He’s a piece of work, by which I mean a complete misogynist and asshole.

“The one thing you should be able to do, which is get knocked up, and you can’t do that. Why the fuck is he still married to you?” he once said to me.

I’d then said it was because he loved me.

What the fuck did I know?

I’m a kindergarten teacher; I don’t usually swear. But since that kiss, something has been unraveling inside of me.

“Oh, and don’t forget to add this.” I hand her ten printed photographs of the kiss. For each print, I used a different filter. The noir one looks particularly romantic.

Yes, I took a photo.

No, it wasn’t intentional.

It was by accident.

I’d needed to breathe, so I had left the family house while pie was being served at Thanksgiving Dinner.

I was taking a picture of the over-priced gazebo my in-laws recently built to send to Katya with an eye-roll emoji, and guess what my iPhone immortalized in digital format?

Yep, you guessed it!

My husband was kissing her .

Talk about things not to be thankful for.

Katya snickers. “This is truly diabolical. I never thought you’d do it.”

“I never did, either,” I admit.

Her expression softens with compassion. “How hard is this?”

I let out a dry laugh, which burns my insides. “It hurts like a motherfucker.”

“You keep up with that language, and they’ll kick you out of Little Luminaries,” she teases, but her voice is gentle. She knows how much I love Aiden. Knows that this is painful. Knows that I feel lost and afraid.

“Then you can hire me at your firm.”

Katya is a divorce lawyer. And right now, it is conveniently handy.

Every woman whose husband cheats on her should have a divorce lawyer as a best friend.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to talk to him and get his side of the story?” She gives me the sealed envelope.

“He kissed her. That’s the end of the story, babe.”

I pick up the red and green acrylic pens I’d set aside for just this purpose and, with the viciousness of a woman scorned, write my husband’s name and mine on it.

To Aiden. From Mia .

I add some sketches of holly and shit—so it looks Christmassy .

“Mia, I am so sorry.” Katya puts a hand on my shoulder.

I hold her gaze, my eyes dry. I’d cried myself dry for three weeks now, and I didn’t have anything left.

“I am not.”

She tilts her head and gives me a look that says, “ I don’t believe you , babe . But A+ for faking it .”

I shake my head as I set aside the acrylic pens on Katya’s desk. “I’ve put up with enough.”

“I know that.”

“Six years of doing everything I can to make his family accept him, make him happy, and what do I get in return? I get to photograph him kissing Diana Fucking Valentine.”

“I’ve never heard you cuss this much,” Katya notes.

“Well, Miss Goody Two-Shoes is done being good .”

Heartbreak changes you—I would’ve never known, would never have believed it until it happened to me.

I take a cleansing breath. “Now, let’s walk through that blasted prenuptial agreement.”

I’m not mercenary by nature. But I’ve been pushed to a point where I’m going to choose me , since my husband, the love of my life, doesn’t give two shits about me.

And, let’s face it, the Winters have it coming. After all, they were the ones who’d put the infidelity clause in that prenup; certain a harlot like me would be the one who’d stray.

Now they can choke on it.

As the heroine in William Congreve's 1697 play, The Mourning Bride , declared, “ Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. ”