Franky KayLeean Antrim

As my husband handed his mistress credit for my work on a global livestream, I smiled and applauded. He was Julian Croft, the newly crowned Chef of the Year. I was the one who actually ran the kitchen. And I was Ava Reed, the wife he’d never publicly acknowledged. His acceptance speech was an ode to the restaurant manager, Isabella. He called her his muse, his source of inspiration. Under his adoring gaze, the woman cried beautifully. The audience was eating it up. Julian came over to me, expecting a scene. I simply raised my glass. “Congratulations.” He froze for a moment, then smiled, praising my composure, my understanding of the moment. He didn’t know my composure came from a place of certainty. My work was already done. He didn’t know the partnership dissolution agreement, disguised as a routine document, was already waiting for his signature. And he had no idea that in a few hours, blinded by the applause, he would sign away his entire future. His performance was a masterpiece. But my counterattack was just getting started. … I ignored the smug look on Julian’s face and threaded my way through the throng of guests. The air, thick with champagne and forced pleasantries, was suffocating. I just needed to get outside and breathe. But Isabella intercepted me, blocking my path. Her face was a mask of practiced concern, her voice cloyingly sweet. “Ava, I know this must be difficult, but everything we do is for the restaurant, right?” She reached for my arm, a familiar, collegial gesture that was a complete lie. My body recoiled before my mind could catch up. I took a half step back, her hand landing on empty air. It was a small movement, but it was enough to crack the perfect facade of warmth on her face. Isabella’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She turned to Julian, who was standing nearby, her voice trembling. “Julian, I was just trying to get Ava to join us… She’s not being a team play......

I once had a best friend. She was so good to me, it felt like a performance. She married my ex-boyfriend, whose family was fantastically wealthy. She told me all rich men were terrible, so she was taking a bullet for me. She sold the Cartier wedding set he gave her, then told him the money was for my birthday gift. She maxed out the Amex Centurion card her husband had given her, then told him it was to pay off my gambling debts in Las Vegas. She was pregnant, but after sleeping with her husband's younger brother, she began to hemorrhage. She told everyone I’d been sleeping with strangers, and when she tried to talk some sense into me, I’d pushed her, causing the miscarriage. In the end, her husband dragged me to an abandoned warehouse outside the city and handed me over to some of his brother's criminal associates to make me "pay the price." I was violated there, and left to die in that wasteland. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day she cheated and had the miscarriage. ... Every time Helena went to see her lover, she told her husband, Desmond DeLuca, that she was coming to keep me company. She always had a new excuse. Sometimes, she’d say I was reeling from a breakup and couldn't be alone. Other times, she’d claim I’d lost a fortune gambling and was a wreck. She even said I was having an abortion and she needed to be there for me. If Desmond hadn't shown up at my door in my previous life, his face a mask of rage as he listed every "sin" I'd committed, I might never have known how twisted my life sounded coming from someone else. Just then, Desmond's call came through. The second I answered, he was yelling. "Beatrice, do you have any idea what time it is? Why is Helena still at your place?" "I've had it with you. Grow up. The world doesn't revolve around you." "Helena is a married, pregnant woman. Stop clinging to her. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look?" "Or is this just you holding a gr......

Everyone thought Paloma Pierce had the perfect marriage. Her husband was gentle and attentive, and her son adored her. But she knew the truth. Her husband, Cormac Ferraro, had already started another life. With another woman. And he'd taken their son along. The night Cormac took the boy to celebrate Sienna's SAG Award win, Paloma made a decision. One week from tonight, she’d vanish from their lives for good. No husband. No son. She was done with them. Both of them. ... “Ms. Pierce, are you certain you want your death announced as a car accident on the fourteenth of this month?” Paloma paused. She pictured the father and son who were with another woman at that very moment, and her resolve hardened. She nodded. “I have one more condition. The bionic double has to die in front of Cormac Ferraro.” “Preferably by his own hand. I want him to be the one who hits it.” If she couldn’t have all of Cormac’s love, she would haunt his memory forever. The other end of the line went silent for a moment. “That request is… complicated.” “Money is no object.” After hanging up, Paloma stared at the family portrait on the wall. The three of them were smiling, a perfect picture of happiness. She could still remember the day Cormac proposed, so nervous he could barely string a sentence together. On their wedding day, his eyes had welled up in front of hundreds of guests. After she gave birth to their son, Cormac had stayed by her bedside, wiping sweat from her brow and whispering that one child was enough. He’d even gotten a vasectomy behind her back. They really had been happy once. No matter how busy he was, Cormac used to bring home a bouquet of flowers every single day. He said lovers were like flowers—they needed time and care to flourish. Even their son, Julian, had learned from his example. When they were out, he would insist on carrying the shopping bags for her, a serious little knight......

As my husband handed his mistress credit for my work on a global livestream, I smiled and applauded. He was Julian Croft, the newly crowned Chef of the Year. I was the one who actually ran the kitchen. And I was Ava Reed, the wife he’d never publicly acknowledged. His acceptance speech was an ode to the restaurant manager, Isabella. He called her his muse, his source of inspiration. Under his adoring gaze, the woman cried beautifully. The audience was eating it up. Julian came over to me, expecting a scene. I simply raised my glass. “Congratulations.” He froze for a moment, then smiled, praising my composure, my understanding of the moment. He didn’t know my composure came from a place of certainty. My work was already done. He didn’t know the partnership dissolution agreement, disguised as a routine document, was already waiting for his signature. And he had no idea that in a few hours, blinded by the applause, he would sign away his entire future. His performance was a masterpiece. But my counterattack was just getting started. … I ignored the smug look on Julian’s face and threaded my way through the throng of guests. The air, thick with champagne and forced pleasantries, was suffocating. I just needed to get outside and breathe. But Isabella intercepted me, blocking my path. Her face was a mask of practiced concern, her voice cloyingly sweet. “Ava, I know this must be difficult, but everything we do is for the restaurant, right?” She reached for my arm, a familiar, collegial gesture that was a complete lie. My body recoiled before my mind could catch up. I took a half step back, her hand landing on empty air. It was a small movement, but it was enough to crack the perfect facade of warmth on her face. Isabella’s eyes instantly welled with tears. She turned to Julian, who was standing nearby, her voice trembling. “Julian, I was just trying to get Ava to join us… She’s not being a team play......

I once had a best friend. She was so good to me, it felt like a performance. She married my ex-boyfriend, whose family was fantastically wealthy. She told me all rich men were terrible, so she was taking a bullet for me. She sold the Cartier wedding set he gave her, then told him the money was for my birthday gift. She maxed out the Amex Centurion card her husband had given her, then told him it was to pay off my gambling debts in Las Vegas. She was pregnant, but after sleeping with her husband's younger brother, she began to hemorrhage. She told everyone I’d been sleeping with strangers, and when she tried to talk some sense into me, I’d pushed her, causing the miscarriage. In the end, her husband dragged me to an abandoned warehouse outside the city and handed me over to some of his brother's criminal associates to make me "pay the price." I was violated there, and left to die in that wasteland. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day she cheated and had the miscarriage. ... Every time Helena went to see her lover, she told her husband, Desmond DeLuca, that she was coming to keep me company. She always had a new excuse. Sometimes, she’d say I was reeling from a breakup and couldn't be alone. Other times, she’d claim I’d lost a fortune gambling and was a wreck. She even said I was having an abortion and she needed to be there for me. If Desmond hadn't shown up at my door in my previous life, his face a mask of rage as he listed every "sin" I'd committed, I might never have known how twisted my life sounded coming from someone else. Just then, Desmond's call came through. The second I answered, he was yelling. "Beatrice, do you have any idea what time it is? Why is Helena still at your place?" "I've had it with you. Grow up. The world doesn't revolve around you." "Helena is a married, pregnant woman. Stop clinging to her. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look?" "Or is this just you holding a gr......

Everyone thought Paloma Pierce had the perfect marriage. Her husband was gentle and attentive, and her son adored her. But she knew the truth. Her husband, Cormac Ferraro, had already started another life. With another woman. And he'd taken their son along. The night Cormac took the boy to celebrate Sienna's SAG Award win, Paloma made a decision. One week from tonight, she’d vanish from their lives for good. No husband. No son. She was done with them. Both of them. ... “Ms. Pierce, are you certain you want your death announced as a car accident on the fourteenth of this month?” Paloma paused. She pictured the father and son who were with another woman at that very moment, and her resolve hardened. She nodded. “I have one more condition. The bionic double has to die in front of Cormac Ferraro.” “Preferably by his own hand. I want him to be the one who hits it.” If she couldn’t have all of Cormac’s love, she would haunt his memory forever. The other end of the line went silent for a moment. “That request is… complicated.” “Money is no object.” After hanging up, Paloma stared at the family portrait on the wall. The three of them were smiling, a perfect picture of happiness. She could still remember the day Cormac proposed, so nervous he could barely string a sentence together. On their wedding day, his eyes had welled up in front of hundreds of guests. After she gave birth to their son, Cormac had stayed by her bedside, wiping sweat from her brow and whispering that one child was enough. He’d even gotten a vasectomy behind her back. They really had been happy once. No matter how busy he was, Cormac used to bring home a bouquet of flowers every single day. He said lovers were like flowers—they needed time and care to flourish. Even their son, Julian, had learned from his example. When they were out, he would insist on carrying the shopping bags for her, a serious little knight......

Three days before the wedding, my fiancé sold the house we'd spent three years building together. His crew exploded in the garage bar. "You've lost your goddamn mind, Derek. You sold the house because Tiffany wanted a purse? Does Savannah even know? Where's she supposed to live after the wedding—your pickup bed?" "Yeah, Savannah oversaw every inch of that renovation. She sanded and stained the wainscoting in the master bedroom herself. Planted every hydrangea in the garden. All of it, her work." Derek knocked back a glass of Blanton's, ice clanking against the glass with an impatient sound. "She loves me so much she almost died taking a knife for me. You really think she's gonna care about some beat-up house?" "Besides. She's always saying as long as she's with me, anywhere is home. Perfect time to see if she actually meant it." I stood in the hallway outside the tool room, a container of hangover soup from Whole Foods in my hand. Behind that door, not quite shut, his careless voice carried through. The hallway smelled like motor oil and old wood. I leaned against the cold drywall for a few seconds. Then I turned, still holding the cold soup, and walked out. The morning of the wedding, my phone buzzed like a death threat. Derek's photo flashed on the screen. "Savannah, where the hell are you? Jesus Christ, both families are in the church. Forty people waiting on you." I sat in a speeding Uber, watching the oak-lined street I knew with my eyes closed slide past the window. "I already signed the papers with someone else. I'm at home now." *** That house. A 1920s Colonial with a wide front porch and oak floors. From the first renovation sketch I ever drew, it took three full years of my life. Tiffany posted one tearful Instagram story. "I want this bag so bad, it's like starlight fell to earth." Derek turned my house into cash and bought her a Himalaya Birkin—Hermès's crown jewel. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Ne......

I once had a best friend. She was so good to me, it felt like a performance. She married my ex-boyfriend, whose family was fantastically wealthy. She told me all rich men were terrible, so she was taking a bullet for me. She sold the Cartier wedding set he gave her, then told him the money was for my birthday gift. She maxed out the Amex Centurion card her husband had given her, then told him it was to pay off my gambling debts in Las Vegas. She was pregnant, but after sleeping with her husband's younger brother, she began to hemorrhage. She told everyone I’d been sleeping with strangers, and when she tried to talk some sense into me, I’d pushed her, causing the miscarriage. In the end, her husband dragged me to an abandoned warehouse outside the city and handed me over to some of his brother's criminal associates to make me "pay the price." I was violated there, and left to die in that wasteland. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day she cheated and had the miscarriage. ... Every time Helena went to see her lover, she told her husband, Desmond DeLuca, that she was coming to keep me company. She always had a new excuse. Sometimes, she’d say I was reeling from a breakup and couldn't be alone. Other times, she’d claim I’d lost a fortune gambling and was a wreck. She even said I was having an abortion and she needed to be there for me. If Desmond hadn't shown up at my door in my previous life, his face a mask of rage as he listed every "sin" I'd committed, I might never have known how twisted my life sounded coming from someone else. Just then, Desmond's call came through. The second I answered, he was yelling. "Beatrice, do you have any idea what time it is? Why is Helena still at your place?" "I've had it with you. Grow up. The world doesn't revolve around you." "Helena is a married, pregnant woman. Stop clinging to her. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look?" "Or is this just you holding a gr......