I shake at his honesty. The stinging truth of how I had pressured him into proposing to me after I chased Olivia out of town echoes in my head. No. This is not my fault. He didn’t have to marry me. I may have played fiercely to keep him, but I thought that he loved me, that he wanted to spend his life with me. He never showed me otherwise. Then I realize something else: Caleb is not as good as I have always thought him to be. His integrity, his honesty, the pure and selfless way he takes care of the people he loves … it all evaporates in light of this new, deceitful Caleb. My God — he did everything in his power to get to her, and I did everything in my power to keep her away.

Have I always known in the back of my mind that I am second choice? Lots of people have first loves that they never really get over, but how could I have grasped the degree of his obsession with Olivia? What kind of woman am I if I knowingly married a man that didn’t love me? He is a thief. He stole my life; he stole hers. Goddamn, why am I even thinking about her life?

My first clear thought is that I want to make him pay. I flash to an irrational thought, where I picture myself hogtying Olivia and dumping her in the Everglades for the gators to deal with. Of course I would never do that — I would hire someone to do it for me. I file through all of the other emotional bombs I can drop on him. I have told so many lies that I have an entire buffet of shadiness to choose from. I pluck out the worst one and rub my chin on my shoulder. This one will hurt him, probably deeper than anything that I could do or say about Olivia. Ready … set …

“Estella isn’t yours.”

Epilogue

Hate is such a prodigious feeling. It’s hot and oppressive like fire. It starts by burning through your God-given reason until there is nothing left of it but a mound of ash. It moves on to your humanity next, hot tongues flicking across the few remaining threads of innocence until they melt into each other and morph into something ugly. Then, in the rubble of what you were, hate plants a seed of bitterness. The seed grows to a vine and the vine chokes what it touches. That’s where I am; the vine wrapped so tightly around my neck I can barely breathe. One hand is on that vine, the other is pressed against my chest to keep everything from falling out.

He told me he loved me. He was supposed to protect me from hurt, not inflict it in the cruelest of ways. He betrayed me. I’m dying. I’m dead. Why am I still breathing? God, I don’t know how to make the hurt stop.

I still have backbone. I’ve been crippled in other ways, but I still have a backbone. His arms were warm. Now, the only warmth I feel is from the blood still pounding through my veins. That’s how I know I’m alive. I’ve faked orgasms. I’ve faked smiles. I’ve faked happiness. Caleb faked amnesia and then he faked an entire relationship. I took a hammer to his shins for it. He thought Olivia could hurt him, I’ll hurt him worse. I’ll keep hurting him. And if he goes after her again, I’ll rise up and do everything in my power to keep them apart. Some people never change. I guess I’m one of them.

Acknowledgements

I’m defiant by nature. My defiance evoked the Opportunist. My defiance pressed the self-publishing button on Amazon. But, no matter how spunky I think I am, it took a hell of a lot of people to push me through this process.  I’d like to thank some of them.

Mom, for telling me beautiful lies and nurturing the writer in me. Your stories and ‘only child’ indulgences fueled what I am today.

Dad, for thinking I’m the greatest thing ever. It’s important for your dad to think you’re the greatest thing ever.

Rhonda and Mark Reynolds, for believing in me and sacrificing for my story.

Jeff Capshaw, for giving me that initial shove to publish, and for the constant stream of books and music suggestions that fuel my creativity. (Rainer Maria Rilke rocks!)

Tosha Khoury, for possibly being the biggest Opportunist fan and supporter. Thank you for loving me and for sharing Snow White.

Melissa Brown, Kerry Ann Ramey, Calia Read and Rebecca Espinoza for being the first eyes to see this book. Thank you for your thoughts and encouragement. Maria Gowin, for your sharp eyes and willingness to help clean up my text.

To all of the readers! Cheers to you! Your enthusiasm and red hot anger, kept me writing.

Luisa Hansen, one of the best moments of 2012 was when I found out someone created a fan site for me. A damn fan site! The Pressed Penny rocks! So do the Passionate Little Nutcase shirts.

Sarah Hansen (not related to Luisa), thank you for your beautiful cover. You are a giving and talented wench. I love your angry eyebrows.

Tricia Tulchin Boozer, so glad you are the face of my villain. You are beautiful and funny and honest.

My intense and hands on agent, Andrea Barzvi. Thank you for your expertise and your questions about the story, which made it better. I feel lucky to be in your capable hands. Most of all, I appreciate your willingness to love a villain.

James, not a day since I met you have you doubted that I would sell books. Thank you for pushing me out the door every night so I could go write. Thank you for believing I could do this, more than I believed it .

And finally, Lori Sabin and Jonathan Rodriguez, my two closest friends. You both allow me inside your respective brains, where I pillage and steal all of your good ideas. Your grey matter makes me a better writer and a better person. Thanks for saving my story and my sanity and everything else in between. I hate you for your sheer artistic brilliance. I love you for your kindness. I bow.

True Love Story

By

Willow Aster

Available Early 2013

1 Layover in hell

It has been a year, two months and seventeen days since I last saw him. Two years, ten months and five days since he broke my heart—well, since I knew that he had broken my heart. Technically, he began breaking my heart the moment I met him, five years, eleven months and one day ago. I’ve traveled across the country to get away from him, changed my phone number so neither of us will be tempted to call the other, had one botched relationship after another, all in an effort to forget.

And now I’m 1,600 miles from home, waiting on another flight to head 500 miles further south, and he’s walking toward me in DFW airport.

Ian Sterling is oblivious to the fact that our lives are going to crash in … five, four, three, two…

I can’t move as he walks up to my gate and begins talking to the agent. I’ve seen the puddle-jumper we’re about to get on together. There is no escaping him.

Caving to the inevitable, I take him in. He is perfection, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. The ticket agent looks all aflutter as she gazes up at him and stutters. His thick hair is sticking up in every direction, just the way I like it. He looks sleepy and obscene; I want to slap him and wrap my arms and legs around him and breathe his air—me and every other woman who lays eyes on him. The guitar by his feet is like another appendage; I’ve rarely seen him without it.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I am on my feet and sprinting through carry-on bags and travelers’ feet. I have to get out of here. If he sees me, I can’t guarantee what will happen. I just don’t think I can risk it. My heart can’t take any more.