EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: Hate The One You're With

Chapter One

Emmersyn

My grandmother was . . . enchanting.

One of a kind, and probably a bit of a shrew. No, scratch that—she was more like a master schemer. Actually, if we’re being honest, master “scammer” might be the most accurate way to describe her.

And before you think I’m being too harsh on the old lady, let me clarify—she had a knack for bending the truth and loved to manipulate me at every turn. Don’t believe me? Well, here’s a little story: when my grandfather passed away thirteen years ago, I was suddenly left without a way to pay for college.

Grandma claimed she didn’t have enough money to help me the way he had promised. I still remember her words, delivered with a sympathetic pat on my hand: my options were to defer and work, or get married so I could access the trust fund Mom had left me.

In the beginning I didn’t want to take that. I was willing to work, even take two jobs—one at Langley Media and another wherever I could get hired. But she was insistent that marriage would help me in the long run. And, stupidly, I believed her. Gertrude Langley convinced me that door number two was the easiest—simplest—choice.

It wasn’t until last year that I found out my grandfather had left me enough money to cover my tuition, but Grandma kept that little detail to herself. She had a plan that, shocker, didn’t work out. Not only did it not work out but it screwed me in many ways. Why? Well, dear Gertrude wanted me to get married young . . . and like always, I fell for her scam.

In my defense, I was eighteen, impressionable and had lost my beloved grandfather. All I had left in the world was Grandma, and I was so afraid to lose her that I followed her wishes, suggestions, and schemes all the time. My cheeks burn with embarrassment at the memory of my naivety.

I got married, but as I said, her plan didn’t work out for so many reasons, including that this isn’t the 1950s. That’s the thing with her generation—they think they know best. She must’ve figured I could be persuaded that being a wife would somehow keep me from reaching my full potential. I wanted to take over Langley Media but she wanted me to stay home and push out a few children.

There was never a great-grandchild—or a dozen like she silently hoped. I reached my goals despite her best efforts to keep me home. And now that she’s gone, I’m sad but also slightly terrified of whatever she might’ve cooked up from beyond the grave.

I’m currently sitting at my desk, twirling a pen between my fingers, staring at a cream-colored envelope that’s been sitting on top of my neatly stacked files. The elegant stationery feels out of place among the usual pile of contracts and media reports. It’s from her. Her dear friend—the lawyer who was definitely more than just a friend—dropped it off earlier today. And here I am, staring at it like it’s a radioactive mouse.

It could be anything—a thank-you note for taking care of her during her last days, a recipe for her famous (and slightly disastrous) fruitcake, or even a list of her top ten favorite soap opera plot twists.

But it’s not. I can feel it, like a strange, ticklish sensation creeping up my spine.

With a deep breath, I carefully tear open the envelope, half-expecting confetti or maybe even a booby trap. What if it’s some wild admission or an apology for something she made me do that was another one of her schemes?

Or worse—what if she’s revealing she was part of the mafia and I’m now the head of her . . . what, empire? Kingdom?

Stop, Em. Just read the damn thing.

I unfold the letter, and my eyes skim over the words, searching for anything that makes sense. Inheritance? The company . . . My stomach flips like I’ve just gone over the first drop of a roller coaster. I blink, read it again, hoping I’ve somehow misunderstood.

I haven’t.

“Seriously, Gertrude Langley. What in the ever-loving . . . Ugh, what did you do, you shrew?”

I’ve read the letter five times but the words don’t change. I even say the scariest sentence out loud, like hearing it might make it less real: “In order to retain control of the company, you must reside with your legal spouse for a period of no less than six months.”

The pen slips from my grasp, clattering onto the desk as the reality sinks in. My legal spouse?

My legal spouse.

My.

Legal.

Spouse.

I repeat those three words until they sound like gibberish. Wait—do I even still have a legal spouse? I sent over the divorce papers right after she died. Okay, fine—I handled her funeral first, just the way she wanted, and then I had those papers served, confident she couldn’t meddle with my life anymore.

But of course, she did. And now . . . well, maybe this can be fixed. What’s six months of pretending to live in the same house with him? It’s been a month, and he hasn’t sent the papers back. What if, by some miracle, my fairy godmother waved her wand and he lost them?

Oh crap, what if he signed them?

A nervous laugh bubbles up, quickly spiraling into uncontrollable giggles. Am I about to lose everything?

That can’t be right. And if by some miracle Caleb hasn’t signed anything . . . Well, how on earth am I supposed to approach him?

We haven’t spoken in years—not since we went our separate ways after our disastrous marriage and breakup, which, inconveniently, didn’t include a divorce. He didn’t have the time, and I was too afraid of losing control of my trust. Now that I’m older, I regret letting my grandmother manipulate me into that situation. If I could do it all over again . . .

Focus on the now, Emmersyn Mara Langley.

I rub my temples, trying to fend off the headache that’s beginning to creep in. This has to be a mistake—a cruel joke from beyond the grave, courtesy of my eccentric grandmother. I’ll just call her lawyer, Percival Harrington III, and ask him to hand over the real letter. The joke’s over . . . if not . . .

What am I supposed to do? Rescind my right to own and run this company? And it’s not just because I inherited it—I worked my butt off to become the CEO. I started in the mailroom and clawed my way up, showing everyone that I indeed deserve that position.

I glance around my office, taking in the sleek, modern space that’s as much a reflection of who I am now as the clothes I wear. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with light, offering a breathtaking view of the city I love. My desk is a perfect picture of order, with everything in its place—except for this damn letter, which now sits in the middle of it all, taunting me with its ridiculous demands.

But it’s not ridiculous.

It’s real.

And I have to deal with it.

I read the letter again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange themselves if I’m just careful enough.

Sweet Em,

If you’re reading this it means I’m finally resting and having a party in heaven with your mother and your grandfather. It might be a sad moment, but know that I’m in a better place.

I fought for as long as I could because I hated leaving you alone. But in the end, we all have to leave, don’t we?

Please tell me the funeral was everything we hoped for and that you used the right shade of pink on those carnation tips. You handmade them as we planned, right? How about the little crochet pins that looked like cute mushrooms? Did people talk about them as I expected them to?

Nancy must’ve been mortified and embarrassed. I hope I was there in spirit to see her face. She was always too much of a prude. I hope you took lots of pictures for future generations to remember me by. Oh, and my ashes . . . Well, I’ll leave instructions with Percy on how you should care for them, but that’s a problem for future you.

Now, let’s talk business. You’ve always been brilliant, my dear Emmersyn, and I’m confident you’ll keep the company running like a well-oiled machine. But here’s the thing—work isn’t everything. I know, I know, you’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but humor an old woman, will you?

I don’t want you ending up like your grandfather, who I loved dearly. But he paid more attention to his job and single-handedly kept his media empire afloat. He forgot about life, love, and the things that really matter until it was too late. So, I’ve decided to give you a little push. Remember that lovely little marriage you entered into when you were young? The one you both thought you could just forget about?

Somehow, I feel like you didn’t take your vows seriously enough and you let your husband go before it could amount to something more. Marriages are about hard work, loving each other through the ups and downs, and caring for one another even when it’s difficult. They’re about standing by someone’s side, even when life throws curveballs your way.

Look at me—I stayed by my husband’s side through everything, and you . . . Well, you just gave up.

So, as a favor to you (because you’re my favorite granddaughter),

I take a deep breath, glaring at the framed photo of her next to my monitor. “I was your only grandchild, you shrew,” I mutter, my voice a mix of annoyance and affection. “Also you hated that I married him—and him.” Despite all the schemes and the madness she brought into my life, I can’t help but miss her. She had a way of making me want to pull my hair out and hug her at the same time.

I have one stipulation: if you want to keep Langley Media (and I know you do), you and your charming husband need to live together for six months. Six whole months. In the same apartment. No sneaking off to hotels—by yourself—or living on separate floors. That’s why you need to move to the old apartment in Brooklyn. That place should do nicely—it’s cozy, right?

And finally, there’s at least one thing I can fight. The apartment in Brooklyn was sold a few months ago. Some realtor bought the entire building to tear it down and create some kind of monstrosity to gentrify the area. I wasn’t keen on selling but since that was the only apartment left I couldn’t just keep it.

Still, I won’t have to live in a one-bedroom, tiny bathroom, and small kitchen apartment with anyone. Maybe since the place isn’t available, we can . . .

Somehow the hope I have doesn’t feel right. Like the savvy businessperson I became, I go back to read the letter to find more loopholes.

Now, I know you’re probably cursing my name right now, but think of this as an opportunity. Who knows, maybe you and your handsome husband will rekindle something . . . or at the very least, you’ll finally figure out that you need more than just work in your life. More than just the little dog you keep in your purse—and let’s be honest, it’s made out of felt.

If you choose not to fulfill this condition, the company will be sold off, and the proceeds will go to charity. All of it. Your choice, Em, but remember—Grandma knows best, and she always wins.

With all my love and hoping you finally learn something from life,

Gertrude Langley

* * *

I swallow hard, trying to wrap my head around the idea of living with Caleb again. He’s everything I’m not—stubborn, gruff, with zero patience for the world I thrive in. The thought of sharing space with him, of having to navigate whatever weird dynamic we had years ago, makes me want to scream. But if I don’t do this, I lose everything I’ve worked for. My company, my legacy—gone.

Unless . . .

This is just a joke. I have to call Percival and ask how to fix this. He has to know a way out, right? He could do it in the name of the love he had for my grandmother. If not, I guess I could let him sell the company. It’ll go to a nonprofit that needs it. I can start from scratch, and this time, I won’t let her manipulate me.

I fold the letter, and just when I’m placing it back in the envelope, I find a small note tucked.

P.S. If you decide not to go through with this and the company is sold, just know it’ll go to people who’ll probably fire your employees and sell off the assets. So, think long and hard before you do something that’ll turn your legacy into a cautionary tale. Just saying.

“Ugh, you conniving b— loving shrew. I hope you’re burning in hell, but safe with Grandpa.”

How am I supposed to get out of this mess?

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