The Star Makers Mad Wife Chapter 1

Seven years after my divorce from Ethan.

We ran into each other in a flower shop.

He was there to buy flowers for his pregnant wife. I was just hiding from the rain.

After a moment of charged silence, we managed to say hello.

Ethan asked, politely, how I’d been these past few years.

I answered, just as politely, that everything was fine.

As we were about to part, he said something out of the blue.

“You seem different, Leah.”

I just smiled, offering no reply.

The truth is, nothing about me had changed.

I had just stopped loving him.

* * *

A damp, cold wind snaked through the gap in the door, and for a long moment, the only sound in the small shop was the relentless drumming of rain against the windowpanes.

The awkward quiet was finally broken when the florist emerged from the back, cradling a bouquet of irises.

“Mr. Vance, you and your wife are so sweet,” she said, beaming. “Coming all the way out in this weather to buy her flowers.”

Ethan took the bouquet, his gaze flickering instinctively toward me. He had a habit of over-explaining.

“Nora’s been a little emotional during the pregnancy,” he murmured. “The flowers seem to help…”

I nodded and offered a few bland compliments. Seeing the rain outside begin to let up, I picked up my bag, ready to leave. As I reached the door, Ethan’s hand suddenly shot out and closed around my wrist.

“Where do you live? Let me give you a ride.”

“That’s not necessary.” I took a half-step back, creating a careful distance between us. My voice was perfectly steady. “I wouldn’t want your wife to get the wrong idea.”

As I turned to walk away, I thought I heard him say something else. The wind was too loud; the words were lost.

The only casualty of the encounter was the breakfast pastry in my bag, now soaked through with rain. A shame. I tossed the ruined croissant into a nearby trash can without a second thought.

A gust of wind billowed the sleeve of my coat, exposing the faint, silvery scars that lined my wrist—souvenirs from a past life. I paused, the thought striking me with a strange lack of emotion.

This was the seventh year since my divorce from Ethan.

And the third year since I had truly, finally, let him go.

There was no pang of sadness, none of the hysteria that had defined our separation. Looking at him had been like looking at a complete stranger.

The rain had stopped. The sky was beginning to clear. I pulled my sleeve down and headed for the bakery.

Stella, the young woman who helps me out, greeted me with a wide grin. “Leah, you’re here! I found a box when I was cleaning out the storage closet.” She pointed to a dusty cardboard carton in the corner. “Should I keep it, or toss it with the rest of this junk? I need to make room for the new dough sheeter.”

I wiped the layer of dust from the lid.

And there it was, in elegant, looping script: Ethan’s handwriting.

For Leah.

Stella’s interest was immediately piqued. “Ooh, who’s this from?” she teased. “Fancy packaging. Somebody was trying to impress you.” She eagerly scanned the box for a signature.

When her eyes landed on the familiar name, she froze. Her voice dropped to a stuttering whisper.

“Ethan Vance?”

She looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Wait, the Ethan Vance? The legendary genius, the astrophysicist from MIT?” Her voice climbed with each question. “The one who discovered that new asteroid and was in all the magazines? That handsome-as-hell Ethan Vance?!”

Stella’s gaze was now filled with a kind of bewildered reverence. “Leah, who are you?”

I lifted the lid of the box. My voice was calm, a simple statement of fact.

“I’m Ethan Vance’s ex-wife.”

The paranoid, unhinged ex-wife. The one who had a stint in a psychiatric hospital.

The one he considered the greatest shame of his life.