Chapter 1 - Irreconcilable Differences
Clara
I should’ve stayed for the champagne toast.
The gala had dragged on without Hudson. I smiled through speeches, mingled with faux-friends in too-tight dresses, and posed for photos beside donors with Botox smiles. All the while, I kept checking my phone, hoping for a text from my husband. Nothing. Not even a “good luck, babe” or a “sorry I couldn’t make it.”
Typical.
Six years of marriage and this all I had to show from it.
The mansion greeted me in silence.
Eerie, expensive silence.
My heels clicked sharply against the marble floors as I stepped into the grand foyer. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting soft, golden light across the black-and-white checkered tile. A sweeping staircase curved to the second floor like a ribbon of stone.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the antique console table.
Black hair curled past my shoulders in soft, gala-ready waves. My lipstick was still perfect, but my eyes gave everything away. I reached up and peeled off the blue contact lens from my left eye.
Beneath it, the truth stared back. Heterochromia. One eye split between green and hazel, the other an ocean blue ringed with green around the pupil.
A swirl of color I used to think was unique.
Even beautiful. My mother had always hated them. Said they reminded her too much of my father.
Everything about me reminded her of him. The black hair. The bronze skin. The slight accent that never left, no matter how much she tried to force it out of me.
My father was the one that got away.
And she made sure I paid for it.
I blinked, my mismatched eyes tired.
I was 5'4" and compact with curves—a figure I once took pride in, now just something I kept tucked under flowy designer clothes and polite smiles.
Hudson didn’t like how men looked at me in tight clothing. Eventually, I stopped wearing them.
The silk of my gown whispered against my skin as I moved deeper into the house.
That silence didn’t last.
Upstairs, something thumped.
I froze.
It wasn’t the kind of sound you hear when a window’s open and the breeze slaps a door shut. It was a rhythm.
Familiar.
Faint moans laced the air—soft, breathy, unmistakably human. My stomach clenched.
He wouldn’t… would he?
Don’t be ridiculous, Clara.
The staff’s off tonight.
Maybe he finally decided to show up and fix that damn squeaking noise the bed frame always made. Maybe he brought someone over for work. Or maybe—
Another moan.
Louder this time.
I slipped off my shoes and climbed the stairs. My heart pounded louder than each step, louder than the gasps coming from behind the master bedroom door.
The door I picked out.
The room I designed.
The bed I hadn’t shared with my husband in over two weeks.
“Hudson?” I called out, hating how my voice cracked.
No answer.
I reached the top of the stairs.
My hands were shaking. A sick feeling coiled in my gut, low and knowing.
A woman’s moan.
Then his groans.
I didn’t imagine it.
I walked down the hall and toward the door.
Our bedroom door.
The noises was unmistakable.
I paused.
Breathed in and... then slowly out.
And then I turned the handle.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for this moment.
Not the silent car ride home.
Not the breath I held as I opened the door.
Not even the thousand nightmares I’d whispered into my pillow these past few months.
Hudson was behind her.
Behind her.
Thrusting.
Groaning.
One hand tangled in her highlighted hair, the other gripping her hip like it was his job.
And her—Sharon Sutton, my mother—was bent forward on my Egyptian cotton sheets like she was right at home.
Like she hadn’t given birth to me.
Like this was hers.
My mouth went dry.
My pulse shot to my ears.
I must have made a sound—maybe I gasped, maybe I dropped my shoes—but something alerted them.
Hudson stilled.
She was stunning, of course. Sharon Sutton always was. A tall, leggy strawberry blonde with
cheekbones sharp enough to slice glass and the kind of posture that screamed old-money
elegance—even with her bare ass in the air.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, tousled from sex and too much confidence. Her
lips curled into a small, satisfied smile.Hudson stilled.
She was stunning, of course. Sharon Sutton always was. A tall, leggy strawberry blonde with
cheekbones sharp enough to slice glass and the kind of posture that screamed old-money
elegance—even with her bare ass in the air.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, tousled from sex and too much confidence. Her lips curled into a small, self-satisfied grin.
She reached for the silk sheet as Hudson slowly pulled away, covering herself with a show of modesty that would’ve been almost funny—if I weren’t watching the scene play out on my goddamn bed. With my own mother and husband.
She draped herself against the headboard like a smug little snake, curling into his side without a care in the world. Her perfectly manicured fingers traced patterns on his chest like she’d done it a thousand times. Like this wasn’t their first time.
I doubted it was.
His tall, lean frame was flushed. Sandy blonde hair a mess from her hands, skin gleaming with sweat. His toned chest—once mine to admire—was now hers to touch.
And she did.
Provocatively.
They said nothing.
The silence crushed me.
Until she finally spoke.
“Darling you're back early.”
“You really should’ve called ahead, Clara,” my mother said breezily, adjusting the sheets around her obnoxiously big fake boobs. “We could’ve been more presentable for your arrival.”
My voice didn’t come.
My breath did but in short, shallow bursts, like I was learning to breathe for the first time.
I stared at her.
At them.
At the room I used to call mine.
“Why?” I finally croaked.
I didn’t know who I was asking.
Sharon? Hudson? The universe?
I just needed someone to answer. To explain how the world tilted so cruelly sideways in less than 60 seconds.
Hudson sighed like I was the inconvenience. Like I had walked in and ruined his evening.
He stood, completely unbothered and butt naked, picking up his glass of Macallan from the nightstand.
A sip.
Then he reached for the leather-bound file he’d left beside his drink.
“Thought you’d come back earlier,” he muttered. “Guess I was right.”
Then he hurled it.
The file slapped against my cheek before falling to the floor with a thud, spilling its contents in a flutter of cruel paper.
Photos.
My eyes dropped.
There I was, at a café two weeks ago, leaning in to hug Matias. My best friend. A man more obsessed with Hudson’s cologne than with me. The camera angle was perfect, a masterstroke of manipulation. It looked intimate. Like a kiss frozen mid-frame.
And beneath it all—
Legal papers.
My name typed in bold.
Clara Ariadne Riley
Divorce.
Irreconcilable differences.
Infidelity.
My knees went weak.
And then I saw another photo. Tucked halfway under a sheet.
Another image of me and Matias.
Only this one—
This one looked like we were in bed.
My fingers trembled as I bent down and picked up the photo.
At first, I didn’t even understand what I was looking at.
The photo in my hand was blurry—low quality, grainy, and off-center. But I knew the moment. I could smell the damn night like it was happening all over again.
Me and Matias.
Barely seventeen.
Half-undressed on my bed, limbs tangled in the loose way only drunk teenagers can manage. I remembered laughing. I remembered crying.
Back then my hair was lighter. My body softer, younger. And Matias—God, Matias—he had looked like a shattered boy, not the man he is now. His eyes were red and swollen, his arm draped over my shoulder like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.
Matias had been kicked out by his parents after Leo dumped him in front of their house. He spent hours sobbing into my lap.
There had been nothing sexual about it. Nothing romantic. Just two kids trying to forget how much growing up hurt.
No one else had been there.
Except…
My stomach twisted.
Sharon was there that night.
She was the one who brought the alcohol. The one who said, “Better here than sneaking out and getting arrested.”
She must’ve taken the photo.
No one else could’ve.
I looked up, holding the photo between two shaking fingers. Hudson watched me calmly, sipping
his drink like this was just another business negotiation.
My laugh broke through the silence, ragged and unhinged. It turned into a half-sob, half-cackle.
“Are you—” I choked out, staring at him, the photograph fluttering in my hand. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
I didn’t even wait for the silence to settle.
“He’s gay, Hudson,” I snapped. “You’ve met his boyfriends—hell, you liked one of them. You said you wished I dressed as well as Ezra!”
Hudson had the nerve to take a sip of his Macallan and shrug, like I was bringing up the weather.
“And?” he said flatly.
“Darling people fake things all the time,” Sharon added.
A hollow sound punched its way out of my throat. Laughter again but this time, tinged with disbelief.
“You think Matias faked being kicked out of his own house? You think he faked the depression, the not eating, the way he wouldn’t get out of bed for weeks?”
I was shaking now.
My chest felt tight, like rage had wrapped itself around my ribs and squeezed until I could barely breathe.
“He stayed with us, remember? After his dad slammed the door in his face. You let him sleep in the guest room. You made him soup, mom. You called the ambulance when he tried to take his life!”
Sharon smiled.
I wanted to punch that smug look right off her face.
She lounged against the headboard, draping herself over my pillows.
“Well, people change, Clara. Maybe he was just experimenting. You know how boys can be at that age. You did sleep in the same bed.”
My jaw dropped.
“You're sick in the fucking head!" I spat.
Hudson looked down at the glass in his hand, then at me. “It doesn’t matter. The papers are signed. I’m done pretending.”
