Perfectly Imperfect(7)
“How long until that woman can be rid of my name?”
That woman? Jesus. You would think I was some stranger and not the woman he married and pledged forever to.
“Excuse me?” I whisper harshly, trying not to vomit from the pressure of pain my head is bringing me.
“You heard me, Willow. You have no business with my name now that we are no longer married. I’ll be damned if I allow you to tarnish my family’s good name any longer. Especially now that I’m finally rid of you.”
Ivy snickers, and my gaze moves over to hers. Her thick black hair is pulled back so harshly in a tight bun that it looks like her scalp is about to peel right away at her hairline. There isn’t a single part of her that isn’t made up right now. But even with the amount of Botox she shoots into her face, I can still see the hate burning brightly in her gaze.
“Why exactly are you even here, Ivy?” I snap. God, it feels good to let out some of my anger.
Her evil little smirk, or at least I think it was a smirk, slips. Maybe she has gas. Her eyes twitch and I guess that’s her only way to narrow them since she can’t actually change her expression.
“You stupid little cow. I’m here because, unlike you, I belong on the arm of my Bradie-poo.”
Bradie-poo?
I hear, without focusing on my attorney, him explaining to Brad that if I should desire to return to my maiden name, then it would be my decision and mine alone. I’m too busy holding Ivy’s gaze to pay attention. Brad grunts a few times, and I see both Mr. Buchanans move toward the door.
When the door final clicks shut, my eyes move from hers and I look at my ex.
“Do you really think you’re any match for Ivy, Willow? You need to see to that name correction so that the Tate family name can go to the right sister this time.”
I gasp and my eyes snap from his back to Ivy, who is doing her best Vanna impression to wave a giant—a lot bigger than my ring ever was—rock sitting pretty on her left ring finger.
“How long?” I question, not removing my gaze.
“You stupid girl,” Ivy snaps. “I was f*cking your husband the day he realized he married the wrong sister. We might be related, but when you started to balloon up like a whale, he realized his mistake real quick.”
I don’t react. I refuse to give them anything else. Not a second more of my pain and damn sure none of my tears. I’m better than this.
“Feels good to have someone ride me without taking all the air from my body.” Brad snidely laughs.
My eyes connect with his, but I hold it in. I draw on the inner strength I have left and keep my face passive.
“Have a nice life, sister dear.”
I watch as they gather their things. Brad places the official paperwork copy of our divorce neatly in his briefcase, and his arm wraps—easily—around Ivy’s waist as they go to leave the room.
“Take care of it, Willow. I no longer desire to have any part of me touching you any longer than necessary. The Tate’s reputation upholds a level of perfection that you no longer manifest.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond—not that I would have. Instead, he ushers my witch of a sister right out the door … slamming it for good measure.
I look back down, my belly rolling over the button of my black slacks, and sigh. He’s right. I’m about as far from perfect as it gets. I’m sure when the evil queen looks into her enchanted mirror and asks who the fairest of them all is, my image never pops up.
I reach up and swipe at the one tear that slips past my hard-built shell and vow right then and there that no one will ever make me feel like this again.
Worthless.
Ugly.
Undeserving.
No matter what it takes; from this moment on, I will never allow this feeling to define me. Hell, it hadn’t been one I’d entertained in months. With the help of my friends and my therapist, I had come so far, and just like that—he easily knocked me right back down.
When I leave the lawyer’s office, the lunch crowd is starting to rush through the busy streets. My body is craving some food—not just because it’s well past my normal lunch hour, but also to help me emotionally cocoon myself. The desire to fall back on old coping methods is strong, but I push it away as I remember my vow back in the conference room. I walk past all the establishments I would normally jump right in line at; I rush past my favorite little Italian restaurant and keep going until I’m all but running down the busy New York streets. Bumping into people in my madness, I’m getting yelled at left and right. I don’t slow one bit; I just power walk through my gasps for breath. Finally, when I see my building ahead, I allow myself to slow.
The Logan Agency, my father’s pride and joy, is all the way on the fifty-seventh floor. Even through the long elevator ride up, stopping every few floors to let more people off, my breathing doesn’t return to normal.
It takes me a good ten minutes after sitting down at my desk before I’m able to breath without the tightness and stinging in my lungs.
“Willow, my coffee, now,” my father barks through the intercom. I look down at my phone and wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if I threw it at the floor-to-ceiling ‘wall’ that separates his office from where my desk sits outside his door. “And don’t forget, only three sugars this time,” he orders before slamming down the phone—severing the connection to my own intercom system.