The Year I Was the Other Woman To Myself novel Chapter 32

With a final, disgusted sound, she pointed at the thong floating in the soup. Her words hung in the air, sickeningly vivid.

The image was too much for Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. Their faces turned grim, their glares shifting from Penelope to Rebecca and back again before they stormed out of the room in a huff. Rebecca, for her part, looked like she would never be able to lift her head again.

Penelope imagined future Sullivan family dinners. Every time a tureen of soup was placed on the table, they would be haunted by the image of this bright red thong. Would they ever be able to enjoy soup again? And would Rebecca ever have the nerve to sit at that table?

The thought almost made her laugh.

“Are you satisfied now that you’ve ruined everything?” Zebulon yelled.

Without a word, Penelope raised her hand and slapped him again.

“You’d better think of a good explanation,” she said coldly.

She shot Rebecca one last withering look and turned to leave. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan were still standing in the doorway and heard the final slap.

“Zebulon, divorce her!” Mr. Sullivan bellowed, his voice shaking with rage. “I want you to divorce her immediately! The Sullivan family will not have such a disgraceful daughter-in-law!”

Divorce? There was no marriage, so how could there be a divorce? Were they really planning to trick her with a fake divorce certificate to neatly wrap up their deception? Not a chance.

Penelope had been about to leave, but she felt like something was still missing. Under the venomous glares of her in-laws, she walked back into the private room. In front of a stunned Zebulon and Rebecca, she grabbed the edge of the dining table with both hands and, with a furious roar, flipped it over.

Plates, glasses, food, and silverware crashed to the floor in a chaotic symphony of shattering porcelain and splintering wood.

At the end of the corridor was the hotel’s most luxurious private suite. Inside, a group of young men were laughing and drinking. No matter what they were doing, their attention invariably drifted to the man in the white shirt seated at the head of the table. When his glass was empty, someone would rush to refill it. When his cigarette burned out, another would quickly offer him a new one. If he so much as glanced in their direction, they would straighten up, eager for a chance to speak with him. He was, without a doubt, the center of their universe.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a young man in a black tracksuit strode in. “That was f—ing incredible!” he exclaimed. “You guys missed a hell of a show! Just down the hall, some warrior princess just took on the entire Sullivan clan! I don't know what it was about, but it was spectacular. I almost got on my knees and begged her to be my new boss!”

Someone laughed. “Who is this warrior princess you’re talking about?”

“I actually know her! She’s a project manager from Stone Group. We worked together once. Her name is Penelope!”

The man at the head of the table, who had been swirling the wine in his glass, paused. He slowly lifted his eyes and looked at the newcomer.

“I don’t think she’s married,” the man in the tracksuit continued. “I can’t imagine who would be brave enough to handle her!”