The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of my red-bottomed heels against the marble floor was the only sound in the lobby —the sound of a woman who had spent the last seven months turning her heart into a stone.
As I walked, the sea of employees parted. Heads bowed. Whispers died in throats. They didn't see the "scandalous bride" anymore; they saw the woman who had effectively dismantled Elias D'Angelo in forty-eight hours.
I caught my reflection in the glass of the elevator doors. My once waist-length hair was gone, replaced by a sharp, neck-length bob that made my jawline look like a weapon. The oversized black power suit hid the five-month curve of my stomach, though I could feel the life shifting inside me.
Disgusting.
