The Poor Girl Who Owned His Heart

At twenty-eight, I walked into the gala with a partner from a prestigious law firm on my arm. My childhood friend, Alex, sauntered over with a glass of champagne, a smirk on his face. "Who would've thought," he mused, "the two people who once argued until they were red in the face at the debate championships would be here now, fingers intertwined."

Later that night, long after I’d returned home, my phone screen lit up. The name displayed was Alexander Fryman. It had been months since our divorce.