Page 2 of Lana Pecherczyk

“When it’s the end of the world,” he said, grandstanding with his voice, “your whole life flashes before your eyes. Your priorities become crystal clear. Suddenly, you know exactly howyou want to spend your last hours and who you want to spend them with. Babe, that’s not you.” He paused, his pitying gaze taking in Blake’s outfit, leaving a trail of shame in its wake. “Or your loser gaggle of fake friends.”

She gasped and covered the phone’s ears with her hands, but it was useless. Her followers would have heard the insult.

“Take that back, Jeffrey Donovitch,” she whispered harshly.

“No, BlakeHartley.”

He’d always been sore about her not taking his surname when they’d married. But she’d wanted her own identity outside of his famous footballer name. It was hard enough to prove herself as an influencer without his celebrity. In hindsight, maybe she should have taken his name. Maybe he’d never have become this … different person.

“I don’t know what’s got into you,” she said.

“For the first time in years, I’m acting like myself. We’re done, babe. Go home and be safe while you still can.”

“You’re yanking me chain, right?” A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Come on, Jeff, we don’t have time for this. A storm is coming.”

“The sad fact is,” he continued, slowly walking backward, “I want to spend my last moments with people who have a little more … substance.”

“Substance?” The word caught in her throat.

“Oh my god, babe. You’re so clueless.” He stopped. Shook his head. Then, he ran a hand through his perfect hair. “You’re wearing rainbow sequins and heels on the jetty while the world’s fucking ending.”

Blake instinctively traced the pattern on her dress. Each sequin had been hand-stitched over tiny tears in the fabric. She’d spent hours restoring it, breathing new life into something someone else had tossed away. Just like she’d spent years trying to restore the light in Jeff’s eyes when he looked at her.

“This isn’t about the dress,” she whispered. “You’ve been pulling away for months.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “For crying out loud, even yesterday you were still gluing glitter on some kind of stupid Easter egg?—”

“It’s aFabergéegg.”

“Who gives a shit what it’s called! I fucking hate glitter! It gets everywhere.” He tilted his face to the cloudy sky and groaned, “Oh my god, it feels so good to finally say that aloud.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s not just the glitter, babe. Look at yourself.” He gestured at her phone. “Live-streaming the end of the world like it’s another junking haul. Do you really think anyone cares about your ‘hidden gems’ when a nuclear winter is coming?”

“Me followers?—”

“Are a bunch of lonely blokes having a wank to your tits bouncing while you play with trash. That’s not a real connection, Blake. It’s not a real anything.”

The word “real” hit her like a slap. She thought of her mother’s dressing table, of the stars in her eyes as she watched the ex beauty queen put on makeup. She thought of the years afterward when her father could only talk to Blake when she showed interest in one of his home projects. Paul Hartley was never one for words at the best of times, and after his wife died, he’d retreated to his workshop for the solace and simplicity of carpentry. Conversations with him had always remained focused on the project, but a hidden subtext was there if Blake approached him with a problem.

The workshop was a sacred place. A place where the world’s problems either melted away or righted themselves after the project was done. So what if a few undesirables watched her? So many more found solace in her work.

Those memories were real.

Jeff wasn’t done shooting daggers into her heart.

“I should have seen the warning signs,” he said with a scoff. “You spent your life trying to make cheap things look expensive and ordinary look special. I dunno, maybe that’s why you married me—thought you could polish yourself up enough to belong in my world. But you can’t upcycle yourself, babe. You still sound like an outback trucker, you still wear too much bling, and you still look like a whore with that shade of lipstick.”

Blake’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Her mother had loved this shade. Called it her “lucky red.”

“Face it, babe. You never held down a job. You leeched off me for years while you fed your fucking razzle dazzle bullshit to other losers like you. Maybe if your dad had the guts to tell you that your mum wasn’t really a beauty queen, you’d have accepted reality years ago.” He gave her a pitying look. “Some things are just … common.”

“You’re being a dickhead, Jeff,” she shot back, tears leaking from her eyes.

“Gawd, you’re crying again.” He gestured at her face. “See, this used to work. You cry and get your way, and then I’m miserable all over again. But that doesn’t work on me anymore, Blake. I honestly don’t care. You can no longer make me miserable.”

Makehim miserable?