My Ex-Husband's Regrets After I Remarried
Poppy Lynn · Ongoing · 7 Chapters
About this book
I rebuilt my life after my husband's affair with the student I sponsored. Now, six years later, I'm back with a powerful new husband and a happy family. Seeing my success, my ex is consumed by regret and begs for forgiveness. But it's too late. My revenge is simply living my best life without him.
Chapter 1
The late autumn afternoon found me pushing open the glass door of the patisserie.
A wind chime tinkled softly.
Six years had flowed by like water, yet here I stood before the dessert case, face to face with Gabriel Sullivan.
The clerk deftly packaged the strawberry shortcake.
"Professor Sullivan, the usual strawberry shortcake for your wife?"
He nodded, his silver-rimmed glasses catching a cold gleam.
His gaze swept over the mango mousse cake in my hand. "Put them together," he told the cashier.
I tightened my grip on my phone and stepped forward.
"That won't be necessary."
The card reader beeped.
He withdrew his black card, the motion stirring a faint breeze. "A five hundred and ninety-eight dollar cake. You used to save lunch money for two weeks to afford something like this."
His fingers unconsciously brushed against his wedding band. I curved my lips into a smile. "You have an excellent memory, Professor Sullivan."
His eyes lingered on the faded wrinkles of my coat.
"Evelyn, hasn't six years been enough for you to let go of this stubbornness?"
A chill from the insulated bag seeped into my palm.
"You're overthinking it."
My daughter was waiting for this afternoon tea after her piano lesson.
The clerk clutched the receipt awkwardly. "This gentleman has already paid."
I pulled up my payment QR code and held it out to him. "Please charge me."
He suddenly shoved the paper bag into my arms. "Your birthday is in three days."
The colorful ribbon left a red mark on my wrist. I stubbornly kept my phone raised. "I don't want to owe anyone favors."
"You're still as stubborn as ever."
He sighed while unlocking his phone. "What's there to transfer? Use the money to buy a new coat."
I looked down at my paint-stained sleeve. A child had smudged it that morning during the art class I taught for left-behind children.
"Thank you." I turned to push the door open.
The glass reflected his figure hurrying after me.
"Let me drive you."
His fingers barely grazed my elbow before I sidestepped. "Your wife might misunderstand."
He froze on the spot.
That young wife of his, the one who knew how to pout and tug at his sleeves, was an expert at posting lip-biting selfies.
