Somewhere in all of that she’d met Sam and was told about Alliance. She met with Lori for the first time when they discussed a marriage contract with Paul.

Stupid plan.

Well, except for the money. That part worked out rather well. Although she wasn’t sure it was entirely worth it.

She put aside her infant work and picked up her senior project.

Gritty stuff, nothing smooth and perfect about it. Even if she was taking pictures of beautiful people, she’d seized the moments their facades fell and real life crashed in. Then she framed the same subjects and added the filters they wanted . . . like her life as Paul’s wife, and then her real life when alone with her thoughts.

The striking contrast earned her honor awards.

And what did she do with it?

Shannon flew to Tulum to take pictures of a spoiled girl’s wedding. That was how she spent her independence.

In her defense, there wasn’t a way to take the images she’d managed in her college years after she became Paul’s wife.

She was the subject of speculation and gossip for years following their divorce.

Was that the case any longer?

There really was only one way to find out.

Shannon lifted herself off the floor and went to her closet.

The walk-in room housed all the finery one would expect of a woman who spent much of her time on the other side of the camera. She sifted through her jeans, designer, but nothing that had a logo that would scream money.

From her workout clothing, she chose a T-shirt with a cat and pulled it over her head. Next came a ball cap, and she tugged her hair through the back in a ponytail.

In her bathroom, she removed her jewelry and lipstick and looked at herself in the mirror.

Not exactly what anyone would expect her to be wearing.

With her camera bag in hand, she set the alarm in her house and walked out the door. Seeing her car, she stopped short.

Ten minutes later, Shannon rode in the back of an Uber to test her popularity. If she went unnoticed as she wandered the streets snapping photographs, then maybe her identity as the governor’s wife was truly behind her.

And she could see if she still had something else to give this world other than pretty pictures of people faking the perfect life.

Chapter Nineteen

Victor sat in a Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard with one eye on the door.

She’d agreed to meet him. Public place, no possibility of physical contact outside of conversation . . . not that Victor had any intention to touch anyone.

He caught sight of Corrie before she waltzed through the door. She walked up with a friend and was talking to her outside. With what looked like a breath of courage, Corrie pushed through the entry, scanned the room, and paused when she saw him.

Dressed in a flowing-sleeved shirt in pale yellow and white jeans that stopped just below her knees, she crossed the room, turning a few heads.

Victor stood as she approached.

Should he kiss her cheek? Pull out her chair?

She didn’t give him the option.

“Hello, Victor.”

“Good morning.”

She tugged her chair back and sat, removing the sunglasses hiding her eyes.

“Did you want a coffee?”

“No. I don’t,” she said.

Okay . . . He sat across from her and tried to find the name of the emotion floating to the surface of his feelings in that moment. Nothing came.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he told her.

Her chin was tight, her eyes scanning the room instead of looking at him. “I’m surprised you found time in your busy schedule.”

She was angry.

“I—”

“And you’re here on time? Do you know how many times you were on time when we were together?” she interrupted him.

He opened his mouth, didn’t utter a sound.

“Zero. Even on our first date you showed up ten minutes late.”

“There was traffic.” He regretted the words the minute they sputtered from his lips.

She dropped a hand on the table. His coffee jumped.

“You’re right, Corrie. Okay. I know I wasn’t the most attentive boyfriend.”

“Fiancé.”

“Right. Fiancé. There isn’t anyone who will argue against that.”

She lifted her chin, an indignant smile on her face.

“I’m not sure I deserved how you ended things, however. When did you know you didn’t want to be my wife?”

He asked the question because he’d asked himself the same one several times in the past three weeks. When did he start questioning his future plans with her? Looking at Corrie now, no longer feeling like he could place his hand on her arm, kiss the side of her cheek, take credit for the fact the men in the Starbucks turned to look her way, he saw her differently. She was beautiful, no denying that. Her stubborn jaw and curt attitude, however, when she was the one who had walked out on him, felt displaced. Adolescent, even. And yes, she was young.

“Once the newness of wearing your engagement ring wore off,” she told him.

“When was that?”

“Two months after you put it on.”

He glanced at her hand, wasn’t surprised to see she wasn’t wearing the two-carat ring he’d spent a small fortune on. Other men would have asked for it back.

She must have noticed his attention on her hand. She lifted it up, wiggled her fingers. “I sold it.”

That, he didn’t expect.

“If you knew you didn’t want to go through with the wedding, why did you plan it? Why wait until the last moment to run away? Was I so impossible to talk to? Didn’t I deserve a face-to-face conversation saying you were leaving?” Because while he admitted he didn’t give the woman as much attention as he should have, or maybe even the love she deserved, he had never fought with her or denied her whatever she wanted when it came to their wedding plans. He gave her gifts . . . what woman didn’t like gifts? They went to nice places . . . yeah, he was sometimes late, and there were times his phone interrupted.

“I got caught up in the process and waited until no one was looking.” For a nanosecond, her hardness ebbed and her eyes moved to her lap.

He reached across the table, and she snapped her arm away. He opened his mouth to say he understood her position, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“Then I realized that you’d kept me waiting over and over again, and it was my time to return the favor.” Her anger was back.

Around them, people hushed their personal conversations to watch them.

Victor lowered his voice. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could talk to me.”

She leaned forward, her voice tight. “You don’t know me. I was told you addressed our families with a nice speech about me getting cold feet and then you mingled. How could you mingle?”

“I thanked our guests for coming and encouraged them to enjoy their stay regardless of what happened.”

“Then what did you do? Catch the next flight home to go back to work?”

He was not going to have this pissing match with her. Not in public. What was the point, anyway?

Closure, he told himself, he was searching for closure. For him, for her . . .

Victor’s silence had her sitting up as if he’d answered her question with a yes.

“While you were mingling, I was out getting laid.”

She was trying to hurt him.

He couldn’t muster a jealous ounce of adrenaline.

Her nose flared. “He was fabulous.”

And there it was . . . the age gap in Technicolor.

Scooting his chair back, he picked up the keys to his car and paused. “I have a box of your things at my place. Should I send it to your parents?”

“Burn it.” Her foot tapped against the air.

He wouldn’t, but he stood and finished their conversation. “Goodbye, Corrie. I hope you find someone who deserves you.”

Outside of the coffee shop, he took a deep breath.

That didn’t go well.

“I need advice.” Shannon looked out over her secluded backyard under the shade of her patio, her phone to her ear.

She could count on one hand how many times she’d been in her pool, and twice had been after her return from Tulum. Both of those times she’d ditched her swimsuit and hoped none of the neighbors was flying drones in the area.

“Is this about getting pregnant?” Lori was on the other end of the line. It was just after three in the afternoon. Shannon wanted to catch her friend before the end of the business day in hopes of luring her over for an hour after work.

“No. Nothing to do with that at all, actually. Is there any chance you can swing by after work today?”

“Oh? It’s something important?”

Shannon rubbed the back of her head with her free hand. She’d been up late, huddled over her computer, and woke with a crick in her neck.

“To me, but nothing you have to drop everything for. If you’re busy—”

“You never ask for me to drop by after work. I’ll be there. Should I bring wine?”

“I have plenty, just bring yourself.”

“Since there seems to be a lift in your voice, I’m going to assume I can leave my lawyer hat at work.”

Shannon laughed. “I haven’t done anything illegal in at least a week, you’re good.”

“If Avery said that, I’d worry.”