The CEO's ex-wife is a famous lawyer

I wasn't entirely sure of the problem,but I knew I was sad. When I mean sad, don't just imagine it to be a day's stuff because I've been sad ever since I walked down the aisle two years ago. Well, a girl like me should be happy. I mean, that's what I'm supposed to be, being the hottest girl back at Forcados high school, a girl every man would die to have. Yes. They did die to have me, except that I wasn't interested because I had eyes on one guy—the very man responsible for my misery. Like I said, I wasn't entirely sure why I was sad. Maybe it's the plane crash that happened days ago which claimed Mr Gonzalez, the very next thing I had close to a dad, or maybe it's from the constant barking I got from the man I called husband. But whatever it was, I knew I was far from happy. And here I'm, all curled up like a girl who had just been scolded for spilling her milk—that would have been better by the way. "Teresa!" a voice rang out. Even though the door hadn't swung open, I knew who it was. Mrs Jones. She was nobody but my comforter, the comforter I gave a hard time. "Go away!" I grumbled. This wasn't the time for some sweet talk. I was not in the mood to hear one of her motivations which only made me feel better, but never changed a damn thing. The door swung open as usual. A very persistent woman in her mid forties, she knew I wasn't going to get the door in the first place. "It's time you stop punishing yourself. You are being too hard on yourself," she queried.What was I supposed to do if I didn't punish myself? I was kind of guilty in a way, guilty for doing nothing but fall in love. Sometimes, it's wrong to fall in love. Yes. You heard that. If love would cause you pain, then why fall in love in the first place. And right now, I feel I should have stayed away but like they say, love is blind.I haven't turned to her direction but the sweet fragrance of coffee and some fried stuff hit my nose. It was 11:AM when my eyes met the clock, its tick tick sound was the only thing that interrupted my thoughts the whole time. "Go away," my cracking voice came forth, evidence of someone who just woke up from sleep except that I wasn't sleeping. In fact, I could barely sleep ever since the news of the plane crash filtered in three days ago. And Ramirez, my husband, couldn't be bothered to check on me. In fact, he has not stepped foot into the mansion we called home for the past three days. "No, not right now. How about we start by making you eat some breakfast," she insisted. A cup oozing out steam and a plate loaded with some sandwiches appeared before me on the tray. I knew there was no way out of this one. "Come on, sit up. Time to eat up," she ordered this time. I shot her a few stares but it wouldn't do anything. If there was one thing to know about Mrs Jones, she never gave up on a goal, and her goal this morning—like every other morning—was to make me eat breakfast. I shoved the blanket aside. The sandwich melted easily when I took a bite. Delicious. I chewed while Mrs Jones watched. All I got was a motherly treatment."Do you think it's all my fault?"She shook her head but no word followed. I took another bite before sipping from the steamy cup. "Do you think—""Now, how about you finish eating then we can talk about anything else," she interrupted. The funny thing was—not funny in the actual sense—that Mrs Jones already knew what I wanted to talk about. The same stories of asking if I was a bad wife, and if I'm to be blamed for everything. And she always answered with a no. I rushed the sandwiches and gulped down some coffee and soon, we got talking. "Do you think I'm a bad fit for a wife?" I asked for what seemed like the millionth time. "No"Her usual but comforting reply. "Do you think it's all my fault?" My eyes soon became teary this time. Mrs Jones sighed, and I guess she was exhausted herself. She put the tray down and wrapped me in her arms. "Look, Teresa, none of this is your fault."We embraced for a few more seconds. "He can be a jerk! at times," she whispered and pulled back immediately. My face now had a withheld smile. You see, even though I have asked the same question a thousand times, it never gets old because I feel better after each session. And thanks to Mrs Jones. She had a way of lifting my battered morale with her words.Mrs Jones left to pick some supplies from the grocery store. I slumped my feet into a pair of slippers and found my way to the sitting room. Mrs Jones made sure the whole place is well kept and clean even though we never used it. The huge TV always stared back at me, crying to be watched and the same goes for every other thing in the home. Either abandoned, or hardly used. I saw myself to the kitchen and poured some water into a glass cup. Well, as for the kitchen, I allowed Mrs Jones to run the damn place. She is better off doing the meals—which were hardly eaten because he wasn't always around—since mine were either too salty or too spicy on his tongue.Of course I know how to cook. I remembered every damn recipe from the cooking classes I took back in highschool days and I mostly claimed the first or second position during the classes but for some inexplicable reason, I became a bad cook.You may say he doesn't particularly like my style or the type of meals I cook, but Mrs Jones claimed mine were better when compared to hers. So, fault not mine. Anyway, I continued nursing the glass of water before me, my thoughts bouncing haphazardly but those of Mr Gonzalez took center stage. I wouldn't see him again because he is gone. The very man who mostly took pity on how I was being treated by his son, was gone. Damn the plane crash. But my thoughts drifted when the door swung open. He strolled in and skidded a neatly folded piece of paper before me. "Signed them, and let's be done with this," he barked.