The air in the greenhouse was thick and humid, a cloying mix of damp earth and blooming roses. The sound of whispered laughter echoed from the back, near the collection of exotic orchids.
Kirsten pushed aside a large fern, its fronds cool and wet against her skin.
And there they were.
They were on the ground, on a velvet blanket that had been taken from one of the guest rooms. Jasmin's sundress strap had fallen off her shoulder, and Damon was kissing the exposed skin, his hand tangled in her hair.
This time, there was no shock. No pain. Just a profound, weary sense of disgust. It was like watching a bad play, and she was tired of her role.
She deliberately kicked over a metal watering can. It clattered against the stone floor, the sound sharp and jarring in the quiet humidity.
Damon's head shot up. His lips were slick with the sheen of Jasmin's body lotion. He looked at her, his eyes blazing not with guilt, but with the fury of being interrupted.
Jasmin shrieked and scrambled to pull up her dress, huddling into Damon's side like a frightened animal.
"Are you following me now?" Damon demanded as he got to his feet, tucking in his shirt.
Kirsten gave him a cold, flat look. "This is my home, Damon. I don't need to follow you."
Jasmin started to sob, the picture of a wronged woman. "Sister, please don't misunderstand! A bee stung me on the shoulder, and Damon was just... he was trying to get the stinger out."
The excuse was so pathetic, so utterly absurd, that even Damon seemed to cringe. But he held his ground, his arm protectively around Jasmin. "She's terrified of bees. Now she's hysterical. Are you happy?"
Happy? She wanted to laugh. Sucking out bee venom from her collarbone? It was beyond parody.
"You should take her back to the house," Kirsten said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "There are a lot of insects out here. We wouldn't want her to get stung again."
She turned and walked away, her back straight. She didn't run. She didn't look back. She simply left them in their pathetic, humid little paradise.
An hour later, she was sitting in a quiet corner of a coffee shop in SoHo. Across the small table sat Eleanor Faulkner and Thea Coleman.
Eleanor slid a thick document across the table. "This is the petition for divorce. All it needs is your signature, and we can file it with the court."
Thea reached out and covered Kirsten's hand with her own. Her friend's hand was warm and steady. "Are you sure about this, Kris? Once you sign, it's war."
Kirsten thought of the greenhouse. She thought of the delivery room. She thought of his cold, dismissive voice saying love is irrelevant.
She picked up the heavy, expensive fountain pen Eleanor offered her. The nib hovered over the signature line. For a split second, she saw the ghost of the woman she used to be, the woman who would have cried, who would have begged, who would have tried to fix this.
That woman was dead.
"I'm sure," she said.
She signed her name. The ink was black and final. A feeling of immense, terrifying relief washed over her.
Eleanor gathered the documents. "I'll file this first thing in the morning. We'll petition on grounds of irreconcilable differences, citing adultery and extreme mental cruelty. I'll also file a motion to freeze your joint assets pending discovery."
Thea flagged down a waiter and ordered two whiskeys. When they arrived, she pushed one toward Kirsten. "To freedom," she said, her eyes shining.
Kirsten clinked her glass against Thea's and drank the whiskey in one go. The burn in her throat was clean and sharp, cauterizing the last of her hesitation.
Her phone buzzed on the table. It was a picture from Damon. A close-up of Jasmin's wrist, with a small, artificially red dot on it.
The text read: Look what you did.
Kirsten stared at the photo, a cold smile touching her lips. She typed a reply.
I'll be sure to compensate her.
She put the phone down and met Thea's gaze, her own eyes harder and colder than the city lights outside.
"The war has begun."
