After I Learned I Was Going to Be His Ex-Wife novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: The Jewel Thief
Mid-roleplay, glowing reader comments call Hen the ex-wife; at the family dinner Benedict dismisses her show in front of the board, she announces the divorce and walks out, and Edmund offers her the reopening dinner where, the comments say, she'll poison the new chef.
My husband had never once told me he loved me.
But he was the best-looking man in Chicago, and he never said no to a script.
That Thursday I left the card on his pillow like always.
JEWEL THIEF. HOTEL DETECTIVE. ROOM 1207. FIRST LINE: "You're not a guest here."
I waited in the dark in his white dress shirt and nothing else.
The door opened at eleven.
Benedict read the card in the light from the hall.
Then he loosened his tie, slow, and shut the door with his heel.
"You're not a guest here," he said.
"Prove it, Detective."
He crossed the room and caught my wrist.
"Turn out your pockets."
"I don't have pockets."
His eyes went down the shirt and stayed there.
"Then I'll have to search you."
He undid the top button with one hand.
Then the next one.
His mouth was on my throat before the third, and I stopped pretending to be anybody.
I pulled his belt open and he lifted me onto the dresser.
The bottles behind me rattled.
"Where's the necklace?" he said against my collarbone.
"Find it."
His hand slid up my bare thigh.
And words lit up in the air over his shoulder.
[God, I'm so sick of this ex-wife. The male lead deserves better.]
I froze.
They glowed white.
[Placeholder wife and her little plays again. So cringe.]
[Two more chapters till Maxine shows up!!]
[He only married her for his grandma's rule. Everyone knows it but her.]
Nobody knew that.
Nobody but us and his grandmother.
Benedict kissed the inside of my knee.
"Stop," I said. "Out of character."
He stopped at once and stepped back.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No. I'm just tired."
He looked at me for a long second, then buttoned his own shirt.
He slept on his side of the bed, the way he always did.
I lay awake while the words scrolled over the ceiling.
[Tomorrow's family dinner is where he meets Maxine. The pastry chef. Our real girl.]
[And the ex-wife makes a scene. Like always.]
[Can't wait for the divorce chapter.]
I had never made a scene in my life.
I was paid to make them, at forty dollars a head.
At four in the morning I texted Zelda, my business partner, who plays every victim in our shows.
"If I start seeing things, would you tell me?"
"You've been seeing things since 2019. Go to sleep."
The next night the Northcott family ate in the hotel's old dining room, under the dust sheets.
The hotel had been closed eighteen months for renovation. It reopened June 6.
Gran sat at the head of the table in pearls.
The board sat down both sides.
Benedict's cousin Edmund sat across from me, swirling wine.
"Hen. Still doing the murder parties?"
"Still doing them."
"Adorable."
At eight the kitchen doors swung open and a tall blonde woman in chef's whites came out with a tray.
"Our new executive pastry chef," Gran said. "Maxine Driscoll."
The air above the table exploded.
[SHE'S HERE]
[look at his face. LOOK AT HIS FACE]
I looked at his face.
He looked like he always did.
Maxine set down a plate of tiny lemon tarts.
"If you hate them, lie to me," she said. "I'm new."
I laughed.
I liked her. That was going to be a problem.
Gran turned to Benedict. "And reopening night? You promised me entertainment."
I had pitched him my show for six weeks.
A murder mystery in the Gold Ballroom. Three hundred guests. My troupe. My best script.
He had the outline in his briefcase. I'd put it there myself.
"We're not doing Hen's murder thing," Benedict said.
He cut a tart in half.
"This is the Northcott. Not a birthday party."
Edmund snorted into his wine.
A board member at the end of the table laughed out loud.
[LMAO he's so done with her]
[here comes the scene. three, two...]
I folded my napkin and laid it next to my plate.
Two years I'd sat at this table and smiled.
Two years of "the party girl" and "Ben's little hobby."
He'd never once said a word.
"Gran," I said, "I'm sorry to do this over dessert."
Gran set down her fork.
"Henrietta," she said. "Go on."
"Benedict and I are getting a divorce. I'll be out of the apartment by Sunday."
Nobody breathed.
Benedict looked up from his plate.
For the first time in two years, his face did something.
"Hen."
"The tarts are perfect, Maxine," I said. "Don't let anyone here tell you different."
I picked up my coat and walked out through the dust sheets.
[wait]
[she didn't throw the wine??]
[that's not how chapter 4 goes]
The March wind off the lake hit me on Michigan Avenue.
I made it ten feet before the hotel door opened behind me.
It wasn't Benedict.
It was Edmund, buttoning his coat and smiling.
"That was a hell of an exit," he said.
"I'm a professional."
"So I hear." He pulled a folded paper from his breast pocket. "Which is why I want to hire you."
He held it out.
A contract. Reopening night, June 6. A murder-mystery dinner for three hundred.
Forty thousand dollars.
My lease renewal was forty thousand dollars, due April 1.
He tapped one line with a gold-ringed finger.
"Guest of honor table for our new pastry chef. Make her the star."
The air between us lit up, brighter than it had all night.
[OH NO. This is it.]
[The reopening dinner. Chapter 41.]
[where the ex-wife puts poison in Maxine's dessert and almost kills her]
I stared at the words, and then at the pen Edmund was holding out.
[and she says yes because she's broke]
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