Page 166 of Forgotten Comeback

She nods. “I’ll get these sent over to your ex-husband’s lawyer’s office via courier, and once we have his signature, I will file the original, and send you a file-stamped copy for your records.”

“That seems rather anticlimactic,” I comment.

“You had no children and a prenuptial agreement that spelled everything else out. It should be anticlimactic,” she assures me.

“Right.” The no children comment another punch to the stomach.

She eyes me with concern. “Do you have a girlfriend to lean on? I suggest going out for a drink and celebrating your freedom.”

“I did, but if you’ll recall, she fucked my husband and is pregnant with his child.”

She cringes. “Right. Sorry.” Reaching in her bag, she slides over an invitation and a black masquerade mask.

“What’s this?” The heavy black cardstock has only an address and a QR code, with a traffic light graphic.

“It’s a ticket to an exclusive masked party. It was gifted to me. I’m bummed I can’t go, but maybe you can put it to use.”

“Maybe,” I say, knowing damn well I’ll do no such thing. But I tuck the invitation and mask inside my purse before rising, extending my hand.

Instead of shaking, she pulls me in for a hug. I’m not a hugger, and I give her an awkward pat on the back.

“If it were me, I’d get my hair blown out, buy the world’s sexiest revenge dress, and go out and have a good time.”

“Interesting legal advice,” I muse.

She shakes her head. “Not legal advice; that’s a woman scorned advice.”

Her words play in my mind as I exit down the hall and press the elevator button.

The door opens, and I freeze.

My ex-husband and my ex-best friend are holding hands smiling at each other; their heads snapping to me in unison.

Couldn’t Huge have chosen a lawyer in a different building?

No, but of course he couldn't.

They both needed to flaunt their betrayal in my face.

“Effie,” Huge starts, but I’ve already spun on my heel and am flinging open the stairs door, the angryclacksof my heels ricocheting inside the empty stairwell.

My first stop, a beauty bar, where I leave with my long blonde hair blown out and makeup done to the nines. The next, a trendy boutique. “May I help you?” Another Gen Z salesgirl asks.

“My now ex-husband knocked up my now ex-best friend, and I need a revenge dress.”

She gasps. “Say less.”

Is this some cruel joke? I’ve arrived at the address on the invitation; it’s a nondescript industrial building.

As my nerves twist and turn, I watch as a few masked men and women trickle out of their vehicles and around to the back of the building.

They must know something I don’t, and so with my heart pounding in my ears, I walk around the building to find a burly man standing guard.

“Yes?” he tells me in a bored tone, and I’m second guessing what the hell I’m doing here.

Fumbling in my purse, I pull out the invitation. “I have this.”

He silently scans it, and I’m granted access to an upscale lounge. The mahogany bar is in the corner with masked, attractive people flittering about. Some older than me with silver hair, and I’m thankful I won’t stick out like a sore thumb.