Don't Cry Now, My Heartless Ex-Husband

The smell of leaking gasoline burned my nostrils, but the cold look in my husband's eyes hurt worse.

Trapped in the overturned car, I watched Jacob reach in. He didn't reach for me, his wife. He unbuckled his mistress, Cassandra, shielding her head with a tenderness he never showed me.

He walked away, leaving me to burn.

I survived, but at a brutal cost. My right hand—the hand that played Chopin—was crushed into a useless claw.

Jacob didn't apologize. Instead, he moved Cassandra into our home. He let her wear my diamonds, mock my injuries, and burn my sheet music.