Sorry, Husband Expired
Bottle of Romanée-Conti in hand, I stepped onto the balcony, letting the wind smack my face while the city lights blinked like nothing had happened.
Inside, my phone wouldn't quit ringing.
I staggered back in and grabbed it.
Peter had called a bunch—messages stacked up.
When it rang again, I finally picked up.
"Yuna, thank God. I was freaking out," he said, all breathless.
I stayed quiet. Let him keep acting.
"I've still got work to finish. Can't make it tonight. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, okay? You got the gift, right? I promised—one ring every birthday."
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