The mention of that name, Brady Feyne, felt like a physical blow to my solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of me. I clenched my fists so tightly that my knuckles turned white and my fingernails bit deep into my palms. Back when I was still married to my ex-wife, Emma Hopkins, I had endured years of relentless belittlement. She looked down on me with a cold, piercing disdain that could freeze a man’s soul. I took it all—the insults, the sighs of disappointment, the way she rolled her eyes when I walked into a room—because I knew I wasn't exactly a high-flyer. I was a simple man with a simple life, and I figured if I just kept my head down and worked, the storm would eventually pass. I thought we were just going through a rough patch that might last a lifetime, but I was willing to "wh
