Just Joshing - Sweet (EBOOK)

I step into the courtroom dressed in a fake mink fur coat, a crimson skintight wiggle dress, and Louboutin heels. At twenty-nine, I never think I’d be asking for a divorce. Never think I’d be the scorned starter wife. But such is the luck of a woman who falls in love with a toad masquerading as a prince.

My heels click on the hardwood floor as I approach the table where my lawyer sits. My steps don’t falter as I see Bradley, my soon-to-be ex, rise from his seat on the opposite side of the courtroom. 

I narrow my gaze on the worm. Not today, Satan.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed, with a body that practically vibrates with vitality, he’s always been a charmer. We met in high school, where he swept me off my feet, showering me with love, gifts, and adoration. Looking back, I was the perfect target for a serial cheater.

I’m the youngest and only girl of five children—Hendrix, George, Thomas, Samuel, then me. My father loves alcohol, and my mother was satisfied with naming rights for a girl. Maleficent Glorious Archer. 

Don’t even get me started on the ridicule that comes with that name.

Growing up, we were a solidly lower-middle-class family. My father was, and remains, the breadwinner, while my mother was a homemaker due to her health. They struggled to make ends meet until my father accepted a position as principal of an exclusive boarding school. Along with the position came housing, a generous salary, and free tuition for his five unruly children.

Of course, he accepted without hesitation. My father happens to be a very smart and fiscally responsible man. But then, one must be with seven mouths to feed.

And thus, our foray into the world of the rich and famous began. My brothers’ slotted into their new lives easily—winning over their cohorts with a mixture of good humor, charm, and athleticism. Meanwhile, I was relegated to the dregs of self-loathing. Unable to keep up with the ever-changing fashions and expensive hobbies of the girls within my year, I grew shy and withdrawn, retreating into books and study. Before I could blink, I became the “poor nerd” of my year.

Until Brad.

Bradley Eastern Roddenbery-Chadwick came from money. The kind of money that makes your head spin. He needed a tutor to pass math if he wanted to continue to play lacrosse, and I agreed to assist him. It started out as a purely transactional relationship, tutoring for cash. But he quickly charmed his way into my life, then into my pants.

I felt like Cinderella, the nerdy, poor girl finally seen by the gorgeous, wealthy prince. He swept me off my feet and into a world of privilege and connections unlike any I’ve ever known.

Any barrier that might have been raised quickly tumbled. His parents adored me, my parents adored him, and apart from my brothers, who felt he wasn’t good enough for me and never would be, all seemed right in our world.

Our high school romance survived a move to college, his graduation, my graduation, and a small rough patch when someone anonymously emailed me about a potential cheating incident the week before our wedding. But Brad smoothed it all over, reassuring me that it was all lies sent by an anonymous troll. 

I should have listened to Anonymous.

After over a decade together, our life crashed down the day the STI result arrived. 

Chlamydia.

For years, I blissfully followed him, allowing him to make all the decisions. Where we lived, what we wore, what cars to drive, where to vacation, what to eat. I loved him with my whole heart, trusting that he did the same.

Pity he loved everyone with his dick. 

The only thing that was and is mine and mine alone is my career. It was a bone of contention between us, pushing Brad to comment on more than one occasion how it reflects poorly upon him that I work.

After all, women in his circle rarely pursued careers. It wouldn’t do for the males of the household to appear as if they couldn’t afford the lavish lifestyles of their wives. Charity work, I was told, is acceptable. But something that actually pays? Absolutely out of the question.

Say what you want about feminism, but the concept hasn’t yet reached the upper echelons of society in which Brad revolves.

His mother, Mimi, took me under her wing when we became engaged, teaching me the art of decoration. Our role, she explained with all seriousness, was to adorn the arm of our man. We were to be a credit to our husbands, to not embarrass him, to grace his life like a pretty ornament reflecting his every whim.

My one rebellion was my career—and it’s the one thing that saved me over the last few months as I struggled to begin a life free from the shackles of our relationship.

Holding my head high, I stride to the table, smiling my thanks when my lawyer helps me into my seat. Crossing my legs, I note that the skirt of my dress falls open just so, revealing a length of thigh toward Brad’s side of the room. 

Good. Let him see what he threw away.

Perhaps it’s petty. But the dress and heels are a hell of a lot cheaper than a criminal lawyer—and I don’t want to go through the mess of dealing with a murder accusation, no matter how deserved that might be.

Chlamydia. 

And the dickhead had the gall to accuse me of giving it to him. Gaslighting bastard. 

I ignore Brad’s stare, keeping my gaze stubbornly on the judge.

Whatever love I still have for him is wilting. It isn’t quite dead—there are far too many years and good memories for that to have occurred just yet—but it’s coming. I began to weed their remaining roots from my heart as more and more stories of his cheating and lying ways came to light. 

It seems everyone knew about him but me. 

He betrayed our life, our love, my trust, and it broke something in me. 

“A sex addict,” his lawyer explains, submitting into evidence a note from Brad’s psychologist. “Unable to control his impulses.” 

Funny, he was more than capable of controlling himself when I tried to initiate sex over the last six months.

We’d been trying for a baby for the last two years. When our little bundle of joy didn’t come, I tracked my ovulations, fed myself vitamins the size of a horse, worked out religiously, and saw doctor after doctor to discuss fertility options. 

All for Brad to turn me down time and time again. I assumed the problem is me—that I’ve become stale and our sex life too predictable.

For our anniversary, I went all out. Gourmet meal, Brazilian wax, new lingerie, hair and makeup. It had all been for nothing. He texted around dinner to say he was stuck at the office. When he finally arrived home, I stood in our bedroom doorway, striking a sexual pose, determined to salvage our night.

“Too tired,” he’d claimed, kissing me on my forehead as I called myself ten types of fool. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I’d given him grace, knowing he’d been working long hours and late nights at the office. 

It’s a phase, I’d told myself. All couples have them.

But it turned out he’d been hustling between a handful of women the entire time, those late nights spent balls-deep in some other woman. Happy anniversary to me.

The letter arrives the next day addressed to me by mistake. An STI test with positive results. 

By the time he arrived home that night, I’d already gone—taking all my things along with ample evidence of his cheating. It was shockingly easy to uncover his indiscretions once I started digging.

The proceedings are surprisingly quick despite the objections Brad’s lawyer raises. Hard to defend the viability of a marriage when the wife can produce proof of adultery with more than one woman. More than twenty, if I’m honest, and those are just the ones I know about.

My lawyer, Murray, practically frolicked when I handed my evidence to him. Thankfully, my STI results come back clear, but Murray used my emotional distress as yet more evidence of Brad’s disregard for his wife. 

For me.

He promised love and loyalty until death do us part. I’d since found out he fucked one of our wedding guests in the coat room at our wedding. Why he thinks he has any right to contest the divorce is beyond understanding. There’s nothing left for us to salvage.

The judge reads out the final dissolution of our marriage, awards us relevant assets, and strikes her gavel down, sealing the decision. 

It’s done.

Rising from my seat, I move to leave the courtroom only to be accosted by Brad. 

“Darling.” He drops to his knees, his hands reaching for me. “Please, don’t do this.”

I draw back, brushing my coat away from his clutching hands. Horror and delight mingle into some grim sense of justice. Fuck you.

I stare down at him. “Move out of my way.” 

“No. I want another chance. Please, Molly. I can change.” 

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “No.”

“Please, darling.” He stares up at me, tears glistening in his eyes. “You can’t just throw ten years of marriage away. What about our love? What about until death do us part?”

“I believe that promise died the moment you put your penis into another woman’s vagina.” I step around him, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Goodbye, Brad.”

In my mind, the click of my heels sounds like a million women screaming their support for my escape. 

“Yes, Queen,” they call. “You deserve better.”

Yes. I deserve the world.

“What will you do now?” Murray asks as we loiter on the curb outside the courthouse. 

I tilt my head back, staring up at the pale-blue sky. “Whatever I want.”