Chapter 6: Going Viral for All the Wrong Reasons

Not long after, I was still wrapped in a bedsheet, wallowing in self-pity.

Ashley FaceTimed for the gossip:

“How was the battle? Did you finally get some? Rate it out of ten!”

I stared at the ceiling, soul leaving my body. I picked at the popcorn texture absentmindedly, feeling so restless I could scream.

“Three minutes of honeymoon bliss and widowhood. Negative ten.”

I grabbed a pillow and screamed into it:

“Seven times a night, my ass! Romance novels are lies. Now they read like crime reports. False advertising!”

Ashley cackled:

“Emma, poor thing. I’m ordering you top-tier toys from Adam & Eve right now. Better to rely on yourself! There’s a new one that’s supposedly life-changing.”

Best friends are the best. Even when they sell you out to the cops.

I wiped my eyes. Actually crying.

“With my eighteen ex-boyfriends—not counting situationships—either Officer Jackson is a two-pump chump or…”

She lowered her voice, eyes gleaming:

“He’s a thirty-something virgin. Like a unicorn.”

I remembered the earlier chaos—Ryan fumbling the condom wrapper for a full minute. Could he really be…?

Ashley grinned:

“Virginity is a man’s best dowry. Train him right, you’ll break that bed. Or die trying.”

Another sleepless night in suburbia. Alone in bed, doomscrolling Twitter and eating chips.

This bed—one day I’ll break it out of spite. Or just buy a new one.

I texted Ryan, eyes raccoon-dark:

【Coming home?】

Waited an hour. Watched two episodes of The Office.

He replied:

【Catching criminals.】

Fine, fine, fine.

Truly, CrimeFighterRX. Employee of the month, every month.

I angrily typed “divorce” but didn’t send. My thumb hovered over the button.

CrimeFighterRX sent you $10,000 via Venmo, note: salary.

Guilt money. I should start charging by the hour.

I’ll divorce him next month. After I use this money for a spa weekend. First, I’ll spend his money and have some fun. Retail therapy is still therapy.

---

After shopping at Nordstrom—bags full of stuff I didn’t need—I sipped my Tiger Sugar bubble tea, about to head home.

Suddenly, a girl’s dramatic sobbing drew a crowd:

“You liar! You have a wife and you’re still seeing me? You spent my money and lied to me, using my money to support your wife—are you even human?”

I perked up like a Labrador. Live drama? Yes, please.

Phones were out, people recording. A guy was even livestreaming on TikTok:

“Oh my God, this man is using his mistress’s money to support his wife. That’s a new one. But he’s actually pretty cute. The girls in chat are asking for his @.”

I elbowed to the front for a better look—and froze. Jeans, henley, familiar profile.

Holy crap, that’s my husband. Out of uniform, he looked like a regular hot guy—not a cop.

My blood boiled. You cheating bastard.

I shouted at the top of my lungs:

“Ryan Jackson!!!”

He turned, face panicked. Eyes wide as saucers.

He grabbed the woman and tried to run. Actually tried to bolt.

I yanked off my Jimmy Choo heel and hurled it at his head:

“Don’t you dare run!”

“You cheating bastard, making a fool out of me in public—I’ll tear you apart!”

The crowd’s gasps echoed in my ears. Was I about to go viral for a crime I didn’t even commit?

Ryan covered his head where the shoe hit, stammering:

“Emma, you…”

I lunged for him, nails first:

“Divorce!!!”

“Emma, listen to me…”

“Listen to my ass! I’ll scratch your cheating face off!”

I went wild, clawing and slapping like a feral cat—thirty-two days of frustration finally exploding.