Don't Mess with the Vengeful Ex-Wife

To mold me into the perfect Caldwell wife, my husband recorded my every word and gesture in that black leather notebook.

Smile too wide. 60 points.

Dress too bright. 50 points.

Stride too long. 65 points.

I remade myself to his standards, one rule at a time. Five years. I became his masterpiece.

Until that rainy night five years later, when our son's fever spiked to a hundred and four.

I called the bedroom. The living room. His office. That private club he always went to. Forty-seven unanswered calls. On the forty-eighth, he picked up. Whiskey glasses clinked in the background.

"Ella. Crisis management skills. 30 points. It's just a fever. Is it worth all this? Come find me when you've learned to handle things without panicking. I'm having dinner with my partners."

He hung up.

I couldn't get a cab. The storm was brutal. No drivers were taking calls. The car wouldn't start either.

I carried my son into the rain and tried to flag down a car. Nothing stopped.

The engine finally turned over on the third try. I placed my son in the passenger seat. He was burning like coal. His lips were blue. His hand clutched that teddy bear.

"Mommy's taking you to the hospital. Right now."

I hit the gas.

The brakes failed completely at the intersection.

My son and I died before the ambulance arrived.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in the bed from my wedding night.

I looked at Harrison Caldwell III and the black leather notebook in his hands. I spoke calmly. "Keep your scores, Harrison. I'm cashing out."

***

He paused. Then he laughed.

"Don't be ridiculous, darling. It's our first day of marriage. I'm giving you a 95. That's excellent."

A 95.

The old me would have asked, anxious, where the missing five points went. And then scrambled to fix them.

But now, I simply stood up and walked toward the master suite—the one with four walk-in closets—and started packing.

"What are you doing?" Harrison frowned. The same frown that silenced vice presidents in board meetings.

"Packing. I'm moving to the guest room."

"Ella, what is wrong with you today?" His voice was sharp with impatience, like he was dealing with a subordinate who'd made a basic mistake. "Are you tired? Get some rest. We have golf with the senator tomorrow."

I didn't answer. I kept pulling cashmere sweaters from the drawers.

He stood there for a moment. His fingers hovered over the notebook. Finally he just said, "You're tired tonight. Get some rest."

Then he turned and walked out.

I heard the door close behind him. Soft, like he was being considerate.

Ridiculous.

Had he ever actually cared about how I felt?

I folded my clothes into a Rimowa suitcase. My movements were slow. Calm.

Footsteps in the hallway. Harrison's mother. Beatrice Caldwell.

"Harrison, is Ella alright?"

"It's nothing. She's tired tonight."

"Oh, that girl. She's lovely, really, it's just…" Beatrice's voice slipped through the heavy oak door, clear as if she were standing right next to me. "She's still learning. Not like Olivia. Those things come to Olivia as naturally as breathing. You never used to find fault with her."

My hands stopped moving.

Olivia Ashworth.

Harrison's ex-girlfriend from Harvard Business School. Beatrice's idea of the perfect daughter-in-law.

Only child of a Greenwich old-money family. Choate Rosemary Hall straight through to Harvard. Always the chair of every committee. Always knew the right thing to say at every function.

"Mom, drop it." Harrison's voice was weary.

"Am I wrong? Olivia was dazzling at the charity gala. And then you look at Ella. She can't even deliver a proper toast."

I zipped the suitcase shut and opened the door.

Beatrice and Harrison both froze.

"Ella, what are you—" Beatrice stared at my suitcase like a child playing pretend.

"I'm moving to the guest room."

"Ella, don't read into this. I was only—"

"I'm not reading into anything." I cut her off. "Mrs. Caldwell, you're right. I'm no Olivia Ashworth. So I'm not fit to be the lady of this house."

Harrison's face changed. I'd only seen that look once before—when he discovered his most trusted partner had sold company secrets to a competitor.

"Ella, what the hell are you doing?"

"I said, I want a divorce."

I dragged the suitcase down the hallway toward the guest room. Behind me, Beatrice's voice came through in that deliberately lowered but still perfectly audible tone.

"Harrison, what's wrong with her? Did I say something wrong?"

"It's nothing. She'll come around." Harrison's voice was flat. "Give her some space. She'll get over it."

He thought I was throwing a tantrum.

I closed the guest room door. Sat on the bed. Opened my laptop.

The screen lit up. The screensaver cycled through photos.

A photo of me in a Vera Wang custom gown, smiling like an idiot.

Harrison stood beside me, smiling too. The smile was as polished as the CEO portrait in his company's annual report.

Back then, I believed that if I worked hard enough, I would eventually earn a perfect score. Become worthy of the Caldwell name.

What I didn't know was that no matter how hard I tried, I would never measure up to Olivia.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Harrison had texted. "Eggs Benedict or an açai bowl for breakfast tomorrow?"

I looked at the message. I didn't reply.

The old me would have typed back immediately. "Whatever you want, I'll have the chef make it." Then I would've gotten up early and arranged the plate myself in the kitchen, waiting for his score.

But now, I just turned off my phone and lay down.

Outside, the Long Island moonlight was bright.

I thought about that rainy night. Forty-seven missed calls. The forty-eighth one he answered. "Crisis management skills. 30 points. Come find me when you've learned to handle things without panicking."

My son's burning cheek against my chest. His teddy bear soaked through with rain.

The brake failure.

I closed my eyes.

This time, I wouldn't wait for his perfect score.