The Favor

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Fuck. Grinding my teeth, I set the phone back on the desk. A sheet of paper caught my eye. I frowned, tilting my head. Then I realized what I was looking at, and my world tipped upside down.

Plaintiff.

Dane Davenport.

Respondent.

Vienna Davenport.

Petition for Divorce.

My stomach sank, and my heart squeezed. He wanted to dissolve the marriage early? What, he wanted to get back to his girlfriend?

More tears pooled in my eyes. I stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth to fight them off. It worked, but a horrible pressure built and built and built in my chest. A pressure to cry and scream and demand why the fuck he’d done this to me.

So Blue had been, what, a goodbye gift? Had he been trying to tell me it was over? Had I just not read the signs?

I heard a toilet flush followed by the creaking of hinges as the door to the private bathroom opened behind me.

“Vienna,” he said, sounding surprised.

I slowly turned, still holding the first page of the divorce petition in my hand. “Something you want to tell me?” My voice sounded dead even to me.

He glanced at the sheet of paper I was holding. His eyes met mine again, and there was no emotion there. “I was going to talk to you about it today.”

“Of course you were.” I swallowed around the clog of emotion in my throat and, shit, it hurt. “Well, I’ll sign it for you right now, shall I? It’ll be easier for you.”

“Vienna—”

“No, really, I might as well get it done.” I slapped the paper onto the desk, snatched a pen from the holder, and scribbled my signature on the required line. “There. Now you can get back to your girlfriend. You obviously miss her.”

He frowned. “My what?”

Oh God, the tears were going to fall. “Have a nice life, Dane.” I made a beeline for the door, needing to get out, out, out. I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

The bastard slid into my path. “Wait, we’re going to talk.”

I hissed. No, we were fucking not. “Move.”

“You’re upset, I get that, but—”

“I’m not upset. I’m pissed. Pissed that I bought your lies and let you play me.”

His brows snapped together. “What are you talking about?”

“You sent me the message by mistake.”

“What message?”

“Your reply to her text.”

“Vienna, I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

I brought up the message on my cell. “I’ll read it out for you.” I recited every word clearly, concisely, calmly … like I wasn’t falling apart inside. I looked back at Dane, who was still frowning.

“Let me see.”

“No.” I stuffed my cell in my pocket and stared at his chest, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’m done here. Move.”

“Look at me.”

I didn’t.

“Look at me.”

Yeah, I still didn’t.

“I did not send you that message, Vienna.”

I snickered. “Oh, I received it by magic, did I?” His hand reached for my jaw, and I slapped it away. “Don’t fucking touch me. I believed you about those pictures. God, I am such an idiot.”

“Baby girl—”

“Don’t call me that.”

A muscle in his cheek ticked. “I didn’t send the text, Vienna.”

“Well it couldn’t have been anyone else, could it? Your phone is right there.”

“I’m a very careful man. Do you think I would accidentally send you a message of any sort? Is it something I’ve done before? Wouldn’t I at least notice the fuck up?” He took a small step closer to me. “The message was spoofed.”

I felt my brow pinch. “Spoofed?”

“There are websites people can sign up to that allow them to email, call, or text people while concealing their ID. All they’d have needed to do to send you this text was enter your number as the message receiver and then enter my number as the person they want you to believe sent it. It’s that easy.

“A big tell-tale sign that a message has been spoofed is that the name of the apparent sender comes up as gray rather than the clickable blue. Look at all the other text messages you’ve received from me. I’ll bet my name comes up as blue for them, and I’ll bet it comes up as gray for the one you received just now. Check. Humor me.”

I pulled out my cell and checked the past messages that I’d received from him. His name showed up blue every time. But, sure enough, it showed up gray for the incriminating text I’d just received. And that might have brought me some measure of relief if I hadn’t found divorce papers on his desk.

I pocketed my cell and shrugged. “So the message was spoofed. Fine. Whatever. It doesn’t even matter now. I signed your papers; I gave you your divorce. Whether you’re with someone else is not my business and does not have to matter to me.”