Chapter 3

When we came out, it was raining.

Maisy insisted on riding the VoltRider home. Grayson took off his jacket and held it over her head. Then he seemed to remember me. He turned and held out the car key.

“Take the car. Your knee will hurt in this weather.”

It was the first time in years he had offered me the Aurelian.

As I reached for the key, Maisy cried out. Her VoltRider tipped over and landed on her ankle. Grayson dropped the key, ran to her, and scooped her up. The key landed in a puddle. He didn’t look back.

I bent to pick it up. My knee throbbed in the rain.

His concern was real. It just always came second to Maisy.

He took her to the hospital. I went home alone to pack.

There wasn’t much that was actually mine. Most of the gowns, jewelry, and objects in the house had arrived after I became Mrs. Ashford. My old camera was locked in the storage room, the lens gray with dust. Behind it was an old motorcycle helmet. I had kept it when I sold the bike.

Inside, in marker, Grayson had written: Next stop: forever.

I stared at the faded words, then put the helmet back on the shelf.

That evening, Grayson came back with an almond cake from the bakery I liked and a tube of ointment for scrapes.

“How’s your knee?”

I was sorting jewelry. I just shook my head.

He saw the half-empty closet and his expression changed. “The court’s waiting period isn’t over yet. You don’t have to move out so fast.”

“The lake house needs work. I’ll stay at a hotel.”

“Hotels are inconvenient.” His voice hardened. “You can stay here. Divorce doesn’t make us enemies.”

I closed the last jewelry box. “Maisy won’t like it.”

His brow furrowed. “She’s not like that.”

His phone rang. Maisy was crying. The hospital wouldn’t let her bring her pet lizard, and no one could take care of it. Grayson murmured into the phone and picked up the car key he had just set down.

At the door, he pushed the almond cake toward me. “Eat something.”

“And—Maisy’s livestream went viral. People recognized you and the Ashford Group. PR needs a statement saying the divorce is amicable.”

I looked up. “She filmed me without permission. Why am I the one who has to clear things up?”

He was quiet for a moment. “She just signed a platform contract. If she deletes the video now, she’ll owe eighty thousand dollars, and her account will get throttled. PR will scrub the comments attacking you. You only have to say the divorce was mutual and Maisy wasn’t involved.”

“And if I won’t?”

Something like regret crossed his face. “Sienna, she’s twenty-three. She can’t survive that kind of backlash.”

I laughed. At twenty-three, I had turned down a long-term contract with a major travel magazine to help Grayson build his company. He’d said we would have plenty of chances later. So twenty-three was young enough to protect. It just hadn’t been young enough for me.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll make the statement.”

He exhaled.

“But The Open Trail was built on my work,” I continued. “I want three percent of next month’s distribution, for what I contributed during the marriage. Put it in the settlement.”

His relief turned guarded. “When did you become so obsessed with money?”

I looked at him. “About the time you told me photography wouldn’t pay the bills.”

He opened his mouth and said nothing. In the end, he agreed.

I posted the statement PR sent me: the divorce was a mutual decision; Maisy was just a friend.

Within a minute, Maisy reposted it with a photo of herself on the VoltRider.

Thanks for being so gracious. Cars cost money. The wind doesn’t.

Grayson liked it.

I took a bite of the almond cake he’d brought. It had gone cold.