The wine stung the back of Melisa's throat. Spicy, bitter—exactly how regret might taste if bottled and sold. Her lips twisted in a small frown.
Well, she had warned him.
It wasn't like she had forgotten. How could she? The humiliation of the past wasn't something that slipped away with pretty lights and polite applause. Tristan had hated her enough to nearly destroy her, plotting to drug her so she'd have no way to refuse divorce. To him, it was a convenient trick—strip her of dignity, free himself for Olivia, and paint his mistress as spotless in the eyes of society.
Her chest tightened faintly at the memory, but she pressed it down, burying it beneath the calm surface she had learned to maintain. She wasn't here to stir ashes back into flames.
It was already generous of her not to pour oil onto the fire.
