Page 34 of The Wrong Husband

"Emilia. I've been trying to reach you but every time I call, I get your voicemail." There was a snap to her voice. Autocratic much!

I walked into my loft. She followed me.

"My friend took my phone away because I was reading all the mean stuff people were saying about me and crying," I clarified.

I waved a hand at the two armchairs I had. "Have a seat."

Marcela sat down and looked around, perusing my space.

I didn't have much. The loft apartment was small. I had a bed sectioned off with a Japanese scree; and a kitchen area with two counters. I did not have a dining table. I didn't need one. I had two barstools by one of the kitchen counters, which was enough for me. My living room was two armchairs, a coffee table made of eight bricks and a wooden board that I had painted Dali's famous melting watch on. I didn't have a television—I had an iPad. I did have a baller Bose music system because…music.

My studio had two easels. I also had a wall that I hung my paintings on. There was paint splatter everywhere on the floor and the wall, but I tried to keep it located to what I deemed was the studio area. My paints and brushes were on a large wooden table with wheels.

"If you're going to say mean things to me and make me cry, I've got to tell you, I'm all cried out," I warned Damian's mother as I sat down on the other armchair.

"That's a good thing because I have no idea how to console a crying woman. I can't stand them."

Well, that was a solid opening from my soon-to-be former mother-in-law!

How had my life become such a shitshow?

"Did you bring the paperwork that Duncan said he wanted me to sign?" That was the only reason I could see for her being here.

She looked dubiously around my loft. "You live here."

"Yeah. It's my Four Seasons." I was out of fucks right now. It had been a crazy few days and I was living on the edge. If they didn't want to hear my unfiltered words, they should've let me remain invisible.

"You're an artist."

"Is that a question or a statement?"

Marcela grinned. She was a beautiful woman who looked a lot like Salma Hayek. Tate Archer was a handsome man, seriously good looking but when he was with his wife, all eyes were on Marcela. It was no wonder that their kids were gorgeous fuckers.

"Not sure," she replied honestly. "You have anything to drink?"

"Beer, milk, coffee, water…and a bottle of some cheap Rioja that I cannot vouch for. But my friend Moana got it for me until she realized I was concussed, and we decided that I shouldn't drink. We ate chocolate instead."

Marcela's eyes twinkled. "I'll have coffee, black, thank you."

I went to the kitchen area and turned on the Nespresso machine. It was my indulgence. If she didn't like capsule coffee, well…she could go down to the nearest Starbucks and get her poison of choice.

I stuck a Lungo into the machine.

Marcela had followed me and settled down on a barstool. She put her big-ass Christian Dior bag on the top of the counter.

I stood across from her and slid the coffee in front of her. I made myself a cup and waited for her to rain hell on me.

"Before we talk. I have the paperwork."

She pulled out some documents and gave them to me.

There were three of them. One said marriage dissolution decree, the second was an NDA, and the third was a post-nuptial agreement.

"I'm still concussed so it takes me some time to read things. You wanna give me the gist?"

Marcela took a sip of her coffee. "This isn’t horrible. I thought it would be."

"You've never had capsule coffee?"