She tried to be a generous person, but nope, not any longer.
Work: Teaching her classes—world religions and philosophy—was her crack. What better way to utilize her experience of growing up in the Middle East?
She’d hoped to apply for a university job after earning her doctorate in philosophy last year, but Barry had discouraged her. She frowned. Had he viewed her success as competition?
Family: They’d been partners, raising their two children, loving each other, supporting each other.
And there was the crux of it, why she hadn’t acted before this. Instead, for months, she’d refused to believe that what they had was gone. That love had…died.
All she was to him now was a…housekeeper. Tears welled in her eyes.
And he was no longer the man she’d married. Before the children were born, he’d promised to abstain from drinking and had kept his promise.
Then Kahlua had arrived, bringing in more than attitude—she’d brought in alcohol.
Barry was drinking every day now, and his behavior had changed.
Last night, when Kahlua deliberately broke Hailey’s ceramic handprint from preschool, Valerie had sworn at her, using the Arabic insults she’d learned as a child.
Barry had turned on Valerie. Yelled at her. Slapped her.
She gingerly touched her bruised cheek. In all their years of marriage, he’d never struck her.
Straightening her shoulders, she rose and walked into the dining room.
Kahlua was serving Barry a plate of pancakes. Her husband looked good for a guy over fifty. During a mid-life crisis and with a receding hairline, he’d shaved his scalp. Being in construction, he’d stayed muscular.
Once upon a time, she’d loved his body. Had loved him.
At the table, Alisha was sipping coffee. The petite, slender redhead was in her thirties, a good fifteen years younger than Valerie. She wore shorts, a blue sleeveless shirt, and a thin leather collar.
Because Barry wanted his slaves to be collared.
Valerie had refused to wear a collar. Or to be called a slave.
“Oh, look what the cat dragged in.” Kahlua picked up her own plate from the counter. Her shorts barely covered her ass cheeks; her tank top was skintight, and her collar bright red. She smirked at Valerie. “Sorry, I didn’t make you any. But pancakes would make your ass an even bigger mass.”
“Morning, babe.” Barry stuffed a bite of pancake in his mouth.
No one asked how she was feeling. No one wished her a happy birthday.
All right. Time to get this done. This…confrontation. She could do this, even though her childhood memories of her parents’ insults, shouting, and screaming seemed far too close these days.
“Good morning, you all.” She forced her lips into a smile. “And happy birthday to me, actually.
Barry blinked. “Oh, hey, I—”
“Sorry, Valerie,” Alisha said in her snotty voice. “We didn’t get you anything.”
“Not a problem. All I want for my present this year…is a divorce.”
Chapter One
March
Humming to herself, Valerie entered the small Vietnamese restaurant near campus and breathed in the heady aromas of lemongrass, mint, herbs, and fish sauce. Thankfully, the sound of her stomach gurgling was drowned out by the clattering of tableware and conversations in various languages.
She was so hungry. It was good her careful budget would keep her from ordering everything on the menu.
Was Queenie here yet? She swept her gaze around the crowded room.
“Excuse me, please.” The deep, raspy voice came from behind her.
Oops, she was blocking the doorway. “Sorry.” She edged sideways, bumped into a chair, and started to trip over someone’s purse.
The man caught her upper arm in a firm grip. “Steady there.”
Grace in motion, that’s me. “Thank—” She looked up, and her mind went blank.
He was six feet of lean and deadly. His clean-shaven face was darkly tanned. Short, curly, steel-gray hair and weather-beaten skin indicated he was about her age. His green eyes held a keen intelligence.
As all his attention focused on her, her breathing tried to stop. Honestly, woman, you’ve seen men before. “Thank you for the save.”
“You’re very welcome.” With an unexpectedly charming smile, he released her.
Giving him a friendly nod, she stepped out of his way. Her arm still tingled from where he’d held her. He certainly was strong.
Especially for a professor. She’d seen him at a couple of faculty receptions…and the man totally demolished the stereotype of an amiable, forgetful professor.
“Here!” The high-pitched call and raised arm pinpointed Queenie’s location near the back. The English professor was a friendly sort—and another person who loved the wonderful variety of Asian restaurants near campus.
“Happy beginning of March. Sit, sit.” Pushing her red and purple streaked hair back,