Beyond Divorce: He Is Not The Same

Adelia poured two glasses of scotch in her private lounge. The liquid was amber and smooth.

"I have a rating system for my men, Chris," she said, handing him a glass.

Chris took it. He propped his feet up on her marble coffee table, crossing his ankles. "Is that so?"

"A 10 is a perfect gentleman. A 1 is a boring drone. You..." She circled him, trailing a finger across his shoulders. "You're currently a zero."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "A zero?"

"Because you're too arrogant," she whispered, leaning over him until her hair brushed his cheek. "You haven't tried to please me yet. You haven't earned your score."

Chris set the glass down. He reached up and grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding.

"I don't play games where the rules are set by someone else," he said.

He pulled her down. She landed in his lap with a gasp. He held her there, his arm like a steel band around her waist.

"In my world, Adelia," he said, his face inches from hers, "you're the one who earns the rating."

Adelia's breath hitched. Her heart did a traitorous flip. She was used to men jumping through hoops for her. This... this was different. This was raw.

Meanwhile, at the airport, Elizabeth was waiting at the arrivals gate. Greg was returning from a two-day "business trip."

He emerged from the crowd, looking tired. He spotted her and smiled, opening his arms wide.

"Liz!" he called out.

Elizabeth watched him approach. She saw the sweat stains on his shirt. She saw the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

He went to hug her. Elizabeth flinched. She took a step back, her body reacting before her brain could stop it.

Greg froze, his arms still open. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Elizabeth lied. She rubbed her temples. "Just a headache. The lights are too bright."

She felt sick. Physically repulsed. The thought of his hands on her made her skin crawl.

"Let's go," she said, turning and walking away without waiting for him.

In the car, Greg tried to hold her hand. She kept both hands on the steering wheel, her knuckles white.

"I heard Chris moved in next door," Greg said, his voice whiny.

"He's trying to provoke me," Elizabeth snapped.

"We should move. Back to the city," Greg suggested.

"No," Elizabeth said. The word was sharp. "I won't let him drive me out of my home."

She realized, with a sinking feeling, that she wanted to stay. She wanted to be near the wall. She wanted to see the Lamborghini in the driveway.

Back at the villa, Chris was in the gym. He was doing pull-ups, the muscles in his back rippling with every repetition.

Adelia watched him from the doorway. She had forgotten her rating system. She was just watching.

Chris dropped to the floor. He wiped his face with a towel and looked at her.

"Go home, Adelia. I have work to do."

"We have a dinner with the Mayor tonight," she reminded him, her voice softer than usual.

"I'll be there," Chris said. "But don't expect me to play the doting boyfriend for the cameras."

He walked past her to his computer. He opened an encrypted channel.

He typed in a code. The screen flashed green.

Transfer Complete: $50,000,000 sent to Blackwater PMC.

He picked up the phone. "Send the team," he said. "The Olson cleanup starts now."

He looked out the window toward Elizabeth's house. He saw her silhouette in the bedroom window.

"You chose the wrong side, Elizabeth," he whispered.

Elizabeth was driving. Her SUV hummed quietly on the highway, but the silence inside the car was deafening.

"Why don't you let me drive, honey?" Greg asked from the passenger seat. He reached for the radio dial.

Elizabeth slapped his hand away. "I like driving."

She remembered Chris driving. He drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, precise. He never braked hard. He anticipated the traffic flow like he could see the future.

Greg was a nervous passenger. He gasped every time she changed lanes.

"Can you sit in the back?" Elizabeth asked suddenly.

Greg looked at her, stunned. "What? The back? Like a chauffeur?"

"Just do it, Greg," she said, her voice tight. "My dry cleaning is in the front seat. I don't want it to wrinkle."

There was no dry cleaning. The seat was empty.

Greg stared at her, his face flushing red. "Liz, this is ridiculous."

"I have a migraine, Greg! Just get in the back!"

Greg unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed into the back seat while the car was stopped at a red light. He looked humiliated.

Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. The space next to her was empty. It felt better.

They pulled into the driveway. Chris's Lamborghini was parked at an angle in his driveway next door.

Chris was leaning against the hood. He was wearing a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette. He looked cool. Effortless.

Elizabeth slowed the SUV to a crawl. She stared at him through the windshield.

Chris looked up. He locked eyes with her. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just watched her, smoke curling from his lips.

It was a look of total indifference. And it burned her.

Greg tried to shrink down in the back seat, terrified Chris would see him.

Elizabeth pulled into her garage and turned off the engine. She sat there, gripping the wheel.

"He's nothing," she whispered. "He's just an ex."

Inside the house, Greg tried to salvage the night. He pulled a small blue box out of his pocket.

"I got you something in London," he said, handing it to her.

It was a Tiffany necklace. A silver heart. It was generic. Safe. Boring.

Elizabeth looked at it. She remembered the first anniversary with Chris. They had been broke. He had carved a bird out of a piece of driftwood he found on the beach. It was rough, imperfect, but he had spent weeks on it.

She had thrown it in the trash bin three days ago.

"It's beautiful, Greg," she said, her voice flat. She didn't put it on.

Greg tried to kiss her. She turned her head. His lips landed on her cheek, wet and clammy.

"I'm tired," she said. "I'm going to bed."

"Is this about him?" Greg yelled, finally snapping. "Is it about Chris?"

"Don't be stupid," Elizabeth said.

"You haven't looked at me since I got back! You put me in the back seat!"

"Goodnight, Greg," Elizabeth said, walking up the stairs. She left him standing in the kitchen, holding the Tiffany box.