“Dad!” Jeremiah cried, freeing himself from my embrace to break into a run. He flung his arms around Simon’s waist. Simon, for his part, recovered after a couple of staggering steps and hugged Jeremiah back, no longer needing to bend over so he could press his cheek to Jeremiah’s crown. A pang of disappointment slammed through me—Jeremiah, now twelve, reached Simon’s nose. Last time they’d been together, Jeremiah was at least an inch—probably more—shorter.

“Good to see you, bud.” He stood to his full height and caught sight of me. “Ella.”

His eyes lit up and he smiled, making me ache.

“This is the best Christmas surprise.”

“Really, Simon?” I asked, a catch building in my throat as I fingered the papers in my bag. “That’s how you want to play this?”

Jeremiah glanced between us, his teeth sunk deep into his lower lip to keep it from quivering. “Not here,” Jeremiah whispered. His lip began to tremble. “Not now.”

But Simon either didn’t hear Jeremiah’s plea or chose to ignore it. “Play what?” he asked, his brows pulling low over his nose.

The bloody, bloody . . . twat! I pulled the thick sheaf from the depths of my bag. “The divorce papers you had served to me at school? In front of my entire sophomore choral class. Yes, dear, I did receive those. Thank you so much for the humiliation.”

“Not now,” Jeremiah practically wailed.

“What the hell are you talking about, Ella?” Simon’s voice was hard. If I hadn’t been holding the incriminating documents, I might have paused, considered the look on his face. But, as I watched, his lovely hazel eyes darkened, and he scowled.

He had no right to be upset with me. Not after those pictures. Not after him doing this to me.

“Your son wanted to meet his stepmum.”

Simon stepped back, affronted. “What has gotten into you? I’m married to you. Only you.”

“Right. Good to hear straight from your mouth since that’s not what we’ve both read on the internet—not that you’d bothered to call and tell us any of this yourself.” I swallowed back the ball of emotion that built in my chest, burning up my throat. He’d promised to love me, forever. And, silly me, I believed him—believed in us—even after pictures came out two months ago: pictures of him cuddling in close to Monique, his publicist. The speculation about our impending divorce skyrocketed, but Simon played blasé, saying the entire situation was overblown and he’d see us soon. Then, two weeks later, came the photo of her kissing him.

“Well, then, since you don’t want us”—I stood up straighter and dropped the papers at my feet—“we’ll be off.”