Page 31 of The Rejected Wife

Today isn’t just a fresh start. It’s a full-blown rebrand.

Sure, it sounds like something you’d find on a mug at a wellness retreat, which it is, but today, I’m claiming it. Because the alternative? Curling up like a sad cliché in last night’s mascara, watching my heartbreak on a loop is not acceptable.

Yes, I met someone who cracked me open. Yes, I lost him. And yes, I’m still standing.

I have my health. And clean hair—I sniff the strands and make a face—mostly. And the roof over my head—barely. That’s practically enlightenment.

So no, I’m not falling apart.

Today, I’m the CEO of my own damn energy.

As for manifestation?I’m making her my bitch.So what, if I did attract the man of my dreams and lost him within twenty-four hours? I’ll simply have to try harder next time.

And if I have been self-sedating with wine? Well, I owed it to myself. But I’m done with that now. I stumble into the bathroom, grab the aspirin, and swallow down two of them with tap water. Then I brush my teeth and head toward my tiny kitchenette to make myself a cup of coffee.

By the time I’ve downed it, I feel better. The intercom buzzes. I frown. Who could it be? I’m not expecting anyone. It can’t be him, could he?My heart somersaults into my throat.Ugh, I hate that I’m so excited at the thought. It’s definitely nothim.Calm Down.I purposely slow my steps before I head over to answer it. “Hello?”

“It’s Toren.” My brother’s voice comes over the receiver.

I slump, half in relief, half in disappointment. “Come on up.” I buzz him in, then head into the bedroom to pull on a sweatshirt before returning to open the door.

I survey the tall, broad-shouldered man who brushes past me and into the apartment. He looks around, and when he turns to me, there’s a look of distaste on his face. One I choose to ignore. Nothing but the best for Toren Whittington.

My little, one-bedroom apartment doesn’t measure up to his standards, but it’s more than enough for my needs.

"What are you doing here?” I frown.

My brother doesn’t bother replying to my question. Typical Toren. He’s the quintessential rich billionaire, who acts like a prick and is not even aware of it. He’s always been so self-assured; he oozes confidence from his pores.

He looks at me closely, and his brows draw down. "You look terrible,” he drawls.

“Gee, thanks?” I toss my head, then grab my now cold cup of coffee, walk over to the kitchen sink, and dump it in. "Want some coffee?"

Without waiting for his answer, I top up the cafetière fresh coffee grounds and switch on the kettle.

"You’ve lost weight since I last saw you." I can hear the accusing tone in his voice and resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Given the fifteen-year age difference between us, Tor’s often felt more like a father than a sibling. To his credit, he also supported me when I wanted to leave home at eighteen and fend for myself. My father was upset, but my brother stood up for me.

He hasn’t interfered in my life or offered to bail me out the many times I came close to losing the roof over my head, which only made me respect him more. Which is why, seeing him today is a surprise. We’ve kept in touch on the phone and the Christmas dinners I’ve gone home for. He checks in on me by text message and insists on taking me out to dinner every month. But this is the first time Tor has come to visit me.

I pour the now, almost-boiled water into the cafetière, stir it, then slide the plunger down without depressing it fully, and turn to him. "What brings you here?”

“You missed our dinner last night.”

"Huh?” I’m normally good at keeping track of my appointments, both work and social.

I walk into my bedroom and pick up my phone from the nightstand. I check my calendar and, sure enough, dinner with Tor shows up as an entry under yesterday’s date.

“Sorry, I’m not sure why that happened.” I turn to find him leaning a shoulder against the doorway. “Guess I was—uh— preoccupied.”

“Hmm.” He slides a hand into his pocket.

“What’s the hmm for?”

“I know we had this dinner planned for a while. But you’ve never agreed to meet and not shown up.”

“So, you felt you had to check on me?” I turn back to the cafetière, pour out a cup of coffee for him, and refill my own, then walk over and hand him his cup. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

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