Ex Wife's Collapse After Divorce novel Chapter 28

Chapter 28

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The second Ethan’s eyes closed, Sophie’s drunk act evaporated like it had never existed.

She straightened up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and snapped her fingers at two guys near the door.

“Help me get him to my car. Downstairs. Now.”

“Wait – Sophie, what are you-”

“Did I stutter?” Her voice was ice. “Move.”

They moved.

She cranked the room’s AC up three degrees, grabbed her purse, and turned to the rest of the group with a dazzling smile.

“Everything tonight’s on me. Drinks, food, whatever you want. Stay as long as you like.” She blew a kiss.” Birthday girl’s got somewhere to be.”

She was out the door before anyone could respond.

Downstairs, the two guys loaded Ethan’s unconscious body into the passenger seat of her white Porsche. Sophie tipped them each a hundred and slid behind the wheel.

“Unbelievable,” one of them muttered as she pulled away. “Ditching us for a guy.”

The other one – a former classmate who knew both Sophie and Vivian – watched the taillights

disappear with a slow, knowing grin.

Sophie’s private apartment. Thirty minutes later.

She dragged Ethan onto the bed – he was heavier than he looked, all lean muscle under that dress shirt – and got to work.

Jacket. Off.

Tie. Off.

Shirt. Unbuttoned and pulled open.

Belt. Removed.

She left him in his boxers, sprawled across her white sheets like a magazine spread. His chest rose and fell in deep, drugged sleep. He didn’t stir once.

Sophie climbed onto the bed beside him. She pressed herself against his side, pulled the sheet up to their waists, and held her phone at arm’s length.

Click.

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Chapter 28

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Her cheek against his bare shoulder, eyes half-closed, lips curved in a satisfied smile.

Click.

His arm draped over her waist – she’d positioned it herself, lifting his dead weight like arranging a

mannequin.

Click.

Their fingers intertwined on the pillow. Her freshly manicured nails against his knuckles.

She reviewed the photos. Perfect.

Sophie opened her social media. Selected the best shot – the intertwined fingers, her face half-visible, his jaw and bare chest unmistakable – and typed:

“When I want a man, I get him. Period.”

Within seconds, likes and comments flooded in.

Then she opened her chat with Vivian. She selected everything – the duet video from the karaoke room,

the kissing clip with the crowd cheering in the background, and the bed photos. All of it.

She hit send.

And waited.

It didn’t take long.

“SOPHIE WHITFIELD WHAT THE HELL IS THIS”

“THAT IS MY HUSBAND”

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TOUCHED HIM I WILL DESTROY YOU”

“ANSWER ME”

“PICK UP YOUR PHONE YOU BACKSTABBING BITCH”

“WHERE ARE YOU??? WHERE IS HE???”

The messages came machine-gun fast, one after another, each more unhinged than the last. Sophie read every single one, savoring each word like dark chocolate melting on her tongue.

Three years.

Three years since Vivian had cut her off with a single phone call. Eight years of friendship – sleepovers, finals week breakdowns, drunk confessions at 3 AM – erased in sixty seconds because precious Vivian couldn’t handle the idea that someone else might want her boring little househusband.

And the funniest part? Sophie hadn’t even planned that kiss three years ago. She’d been drunk. Stupid. Impulsive. She’d apologized the next morning, and Vivian had blocked her number before the voicemail

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