Now he was giving it to her.
And the woman receiving it was the person who had stood beside me on my wedding day, holding my flowers and promising that nothing would ever come between us.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to walk straight toward them, throw my handbag at Ryan, and ask Megan whether she had enjoyed pretending to be my sister for the past twenty-two years.
Instead, I stepped backward.
Unfortunately, the passenger behind me had already noticed my expression.
“Ma’am, are you all right?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“Your bag,” he said gently, pointing toward the overhead compartment.
I’d been standing in front of it for almost a minute without realizing it.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m fine.”
I wasn’t fine.
Not even close.
My name is Kylie Bennett. I’m forty-seven years old, and until that morning, I believed my eighteen-year marriage was one of the most stable things in my life.
