that was much worse. For five years, she had been secretly sending money to her ex-boyfriend, Ben Ca

ever lied t

t lie w

our divorce would b

d already sold the last of my paintings, the ones that used

d dropped it into a small, velvet-lined box.

n a small tripod, aimed it at the

you're seeing this, it means you came back. It means you

ould see. Not a heartbroken husb

is final. Y

ile to my lawyer with one instruction: "Send

ew she would. And I kn

.

the thick stack of papers on the coffee table. Her br

r tech executive, was anything but dumb. She was sharp, calculat

ot th

ate contracts for a shell company I'd set up was our di

ompletely calm

new gallery project," I said, my voice smoot

en she was already checking the time on her ex

To see Ben Carter, the musician whose career she

a courthouse, a rushed affair because her company was about to go pu

s another lie, one of many I had swallowed over the years. Our en

just a

on. The subtle tap of her foot on the

to go. Ben's showcase is t

htness in her eyes that was never there for me. It wasn't about a bus

glance at the pages, she signed her name on the last page o

on the divorce settlement, wa

up and smoothing down her designer

ith the sight of her back. It was a