The book of lies about my life hit my ex-husband square in the chest, the thud echoing through the quiet bookstore as a pitcher of water tipped over in its wake.
He had taken our twenty-eight-year marriage and twisted it into a bestselling work of fiction.
I was the villain, of course. A cold, frigid shrew named ‘Clarissa.’ Our children were cruel caricatures, their private struggles weaponized against them on the page. Every secret, every vulnerability, every sacred memory we ever shared was now a chapter, repackaged for public pity and profit.
Mark thought he could burn down our history and call it a memoir. He believed he could get away with poisoning the archives of our family.
What that failed novelist didn’t count on was that an archivist knows how to document the truth, and I was about to publish the annotated edition of his lies with footnotes from every person he ever burned.
The Unveiling: The Brown Paper Imposter
The box sat on my welcome mat like a bad omen. It was just a plain, brown-paper-wrapped parcel with no return address, my name and new address scrawled in an unfamiliar, spiky cursive. For six months since the divorce was finalized, my new life in this quiet condo had been an exercise in curated peace. I chose the paint colors, the furniture, the silence. Unsolicited packages were not part of the design.
I nudged it with my foot, half-expecting it to tick. Nothing. With a sigh that felt heavier than the box itself, I carried it inside and set it on the gleaming quartz of my kitchen island. The silence I’d cultivated now felt unnerving. I slit the tape with a paring knife, my movements precise, methodical. It was how I did everything now. It was how I kept the chaos at bay.
Inside, nestled in a bed of packing peanuts, was a single hardcover book. The weight of it was substantial, a dense, self-important brick. I lifted it out. There was no gift card, no note. Just the book, anonymous and intrusive. It was probably a mistake, a mis-delivery meant for a neighbor.
Still, a prickle of unease traced its way up my spine. For a woman who spent her days as a university archivist, handling the delicate, truthful remnants of other people’s lives, an object without provenance felt wrong. It felt like a violation before I even knew what it was.
The Face on the Cover
The jacket was matte black, stark and dramatic. The title, embossed in a self-consciously elegant gold font, read: *Shattered Vows: A Memoir of Truth and Betrayal*. My breath hitched. Below the title, in smaller letters, was the author’s name: Mark Peterson.
My Mark. My ex-husband.
A photo of him took up the bottom third of the cover. It was a picture I didn’t recognize, one of those staged author photos where he was trying to look thoughtful and wounded. He wore a tweed jacket I’d always hated, his chin resting on his steepled fingers. His eyes, which I once thought were full of deep contemplation, now just looked vacant, staring into a future he believed he was entitled to. A small, bitter laugh escaped my lips. Mark, the failed novelist, the perpetual dreamer who never finished anything, had finally written a book.
I flipped it over. The back-cover copy was a masterclass in self-pity and aggrandizement. “…a harrowing, unflinching look at the slow decay of a marriage, told from the perspective of a man who gave everything and was left with nothing…” It spoke of emotional abuse, of gaslighting, of a wife whose cold ambition overshadowed a husband’s gentle spirit.
My stomach churned. Gentle spirit? Mark’s spirit was about as gentle as a cornered badger. This wasn’t just a book. It was a declaration of war, delivered to my doorstep. I ran my thumb over his smug, professionally lit face, a cold dread seeping into my bones. He hadn’t just written a book; he had rewritten our life.
About the Author
