Kelly Mini Logan

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

In my previous life, I was the “pastor’s wife.” For thirty years, I stood by my husband, David, and helped him turn a humble chapel into Light of Hope, the most influential church in the South. When he was fifty, he fell in love with Sarah, the young choir director. For the sake of the church’s unity, I suffered in silence. With my tacit permission, he spent the next fifteen years grooming Sarah for leadership, systematically stripping my authority until I was nothing more than a figurehead. On his deathbed, he held my hand, but his last words to me were, “My only regret is not asking you to step aside sooner. I should have been braver, for the sake of the church’s future.” My children—one a church executive, the other a youth pastor—blamed me for the church’s eventual decline. When I had a stroke, they sent me to a notoriously understaffed nursing facility, just so “the congregation wouldn’t see our family’s imperfections.” After I died, they erased me from the memorial video and publicly eulogized Sarah as their father’s “true soulmate.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the church’s annual fundraising gala. In one hour, my celebrity pastor husband would announce to everyone that the Family Faith Center, a project I had spent years creating, would be placed entirely under Sarah’s leadership. … The planning for tonight’s gala had started a month ago, and I had orchestrated every detail. I’d personally liaised with every major donor, confirming their seating preferences. I’d stayed up all night revising the program until every second was flawless. I’d supervised the venue setup, adjusting the angle of the stage lights myself, again and again. Today, I had been on my feet since dawn. Beneath my elegant Chanel suit, my back was soaked with sweat. And my husband, David, the celebrity pastor of Light of Hope, was in his study, leisurely rehearsing his speech, practicing the charismatic smile in the mirror that could com......

In my previous life, I was the “pastor’s wife.” For thirty years, I stood by my husband, David, and helped him turn a humble chapel into Light of Hope, the most influential church in the South. When he was fifty, he fell in love with Sarah, the young choir director. For the sake of the church’s unity, I suffered in silence. With my tacit permission, he spent the next fifteen years grooming Sarah for leadership, systematically stripping my authority until I was nothing more than a figurehead. On his deathbed, he held my hand, but his last words to me were, “My only regret is not asking you to step aside sooner. I should have been braver, for the sake of the church’s future.” My children—one a church executive, the other a youth pastor—blamed me for the church’s eventual decline. When I had a stroke, they sent me to a notoriously understaffed nursing facility, just so “the congregation wouldn’t see our family’s imperfections.” After I died, they erased me from the memorial video and publicly eulogized Sarah as their father’s “true soulmate.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the church’s annual fundraising gala. In one hour, my celebrity pastor husband would announce to everyone that the Family Faith Center, a project I had spent years creating, would be placed entirely under Sarah’s leadership. … The planning for tonight’s gala had started a month ago, and I had orchestrated every detail. I’d personally liaised with every major donor, confirming their seating preferences. I’d stayed up all night revising the program until every second was flawless. I’d supervised the venue setup, adjusting the angle of the stage lights myself, again and again. Today, I had been on my feet since dawn. Beneath my elegant Chanel suit, my back was soaked with sweat. And my husband, David, the celebrity pastor of Light of Hope, was in his study, leisurely rehearsing his speech, practicing the charismatic smile in the mirror that could com......

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

I made one phone call. Twelve minutes later, a man and I were getting our marriage license at the Denver County Clerk’s office. It was the exact time my wedding was supposed to start. At the very same window. Except the groom wasn’t Callum. He was the man who had left me standing here alone for his ex-girlfriend. The man whose “minor car accident” had just jeopardized my niece’s adoption. He thought I would beg him to come back. Instead, I called Miles, the man the whole world knew was in love with me—and I was the only one who’d been pretending not to see it. I calmly signed my name and sent Callum one last text: “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Callum. You’re no longer a part of my life.” He thought this was the end. For me, the real fight was just beginning. ... My phone buzzed again. It was Callum’s second text. “Celeste’s sprain is worse than they thought. The doctor says she might have to stay for observation. We’ll have to push our plans to tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Nora.” I stared at the words, a bitter, absurd laugh catching in my throat. Tomorrow. Again. Hazel’s school play: “I’ll make it up to her tomorrow, I promise.” The family camping trip: “Next weekend, baby. I swear.” Now, when we were supposed to be getting our marriage license for my niece’s adoption, he was, once again, talking about “tomorrow.” His tomorrows were bad checks that never cleared. And every one of Celeste’s “accidents” landed with surgical precision on the exact day I needed him. “Ma’am?” the clerk behind the window asked. Her name tag read Maria, and her face held the practiced sympathy of someone who had seen every flavor of public heartbreak. “Would you like me to cancel the appointment?” I looked at her, then down at my phone. Celeste had just posted a new photo. In it, Callum’s hand was clasped tightly around her bandaged ankle. The caption: “So lucky you’re here.” Cancel? No. “No,” I heard myself say, my v......

I made one phone call. Twelve minutes later, a man and I were getting our marriage license at the Denver County Clerk’s office. It was the exact time my wedding was supposed to start. At the very same window. Except the groom wasn’t Callum. He was the man who had left me standing here alone for his ex-girlfriend. The man whose “minor car accident” had just jeopardized my niece’s adoption. He thought I would beg him to come back. Instead, I called Miles, the man the whole world knew was in love with me—and I was the only one who’d been pretending not to see it. I calmly signed my name and sent Callum one last text: “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Callum. You’re no longer a part of my life.” He thought this was the end. For me, the real fight was just beginning. ... My phone buzzed again. It was Callum’s second text. “Celeste’s sprain is worse than they thought. The doctor says she might have to stay for observation. We’ll have to push our plans to tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Nora.” I stared at the words, a bitter, absurd laugh catching in my throat. Tomorrow. Again. Hazel’s school play: “I’ll make it up to her tomorrow, I promise.” The family camping trip: “Next weekend, baby. I swear.” Now, when we were supposed to be getting our marriage license for my niece’s adoption, he was, once again, talking about “tomorrow.” His tomorrows were bad checks that never cleared. And every one of Celeste’s “accidents” landed with surgical precision on the exact day I needed him. “Ma’am?” the clerk behind the window asked. Her name tag read Maria, and her face held the practiced sympathy of someone who had seen every flavor of public heartbreak. “Would you like me to cancel the appointment?” I looked at her, then down at my phone. Celeste had just posted a new photo. In it, Callum’s hand was clasped tightly around her bandaged ankle. The caption: “So lucky you’re here.” Cancel? No. “No,” I heard myself say, my v......

I made one phone call. Twelve minutes later, a man and I were getting our marriage license at the Denver County Clerk’s office. It was the exact time my wedding was supposed to start. At the very same window. Except the groom wasn’t Callum. He was the man who had left me standing here alone for his ex-girlfriend. The man whose “minor car accident” had just jeopardized my niece’s adoption. He thought I would beg him to come back. Instead, I called Miles, the man the whole world knew was in love with me—and I was the only one who’d been pretending not to see it. I calmly signed my name and sent Callum one last text: “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Callum. You’re no longer a part of my life.” He thought this was the end. For me, the real fight was just beginning. ... My phone buzzed again. It was Callum’s second text. “Celeste’s sprain is worse than they thought. The doctor says she might have to stay for observation. We’ll have to push our plans to tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Nora.” I stared at the words, a bitter, absurd laugh catching in my throat. Tomorrow. Again. Hazel’s school play: “I’ll make it up to her tomorrow, I promise.” The family camping trip: “Next weekend, baby. I swear.” Now, when we were supposed to be getting our marriage license for my niece’s adoption, he was, once again, talking about “tomorrow.” His tomorrows were bad checks that never cleared. And every one of Celeste’s “accidents” landed with surgical precision on the exact day I needed him. “Ma’am?” the clerk behind the window asked. Her name tag read Maria, and her face held the practiced sympathy of someone who had seen every flavor of public heartbreak. “Would you like me to cancel the appointment?” I looked at her, then down at my phone. Celeste had just posted a new photo. In it, Callum’s hand was clasped tightly around her bandaged ankle. The caption: “So lucky you’re here.” Cancel? No. “No,” I heard myself say, my v......