Killing Divine

Chapter Title: Polished and Pretending

Kimberly

The day started with a headache and a list of things to pretend to care about. I opened my eyes to the blinding Chesapeake sunlight slanting through gauzy curtains of the bedroom of my tiny home, and the sharp, scratchy screech of a seagull with a vendetta against my window. It sounded like it had unfinished business with the glass.

Hank was already gone—again. No goodbye kiss. No whispered farewell. Just the faint scent of his cologne lingering on the pillow next to mine and a text, timestamped at 5:17 a.m.

Early meeting. Coffee’s in the pot. Love you.

Love you. I stared at the words a second too long before tossing the phone face-down on the comforter. They felt rehearsed, like lines from a script Hank had been reciting too often. Not that he didn’t mean them. He did—probably. Just the way someone meant brushing their teeth or tying their tie. Polished. Correct. Expected. Distant enough to make anyone wonder if all of this—us, the wedding, this life—was a beautifully packaged mistake.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen, poured the coffee he left behind, and stepped onto the porch swing. The July heat clung to the air like a second skin. Somewhere down the street, wind chimes clinked. The scent of brine drifted from the bay. If I focused hard enough, I could almost convince myself I liked it here.

But I didn’t.

Not really.

I wasn’t from here. I didn’t grow up on these docks or know the names of the fishermen who waved as they passed. I didn’t crave the daily gossip or the salt in the air that never quite washed off. I came from the city—shopping districts, rooftop bars, Uber Blacks waiting at the tap of a screen.

But I came here for Hank.

Henry “Hank” Williamson III, Crisfield’s golden boy. Son of a senator, heir to a political dynasty, a man with crisp jawlines, cable-knit sweaters, and the kind of ambition that got whispered about in Capitol Hill backrooms. We met two years ago at a campaign fundraiser in Annapolis. I had been dating someone else. By the time dessert was served, I wasn’t.

Now, we were engaged. And when we marry in a few months, we would be moving to D.C., where Hank would take a seat behind his father’s desk—literally. His father had already pulled strings to get him a senior aide position. My role was less clear. Wife. Support system. Polished accessory. Baby-maker.

I was trying to be okay with that.

I took a sip of coffee and tried not to think about her... Kathy, my sister.

Too late.

I missed home. I missed her.

Kathy, my brilliant, stubborn, elusive older sister. The one who vanished into a career I could never quite define. The one who called from blocked numbers and never stayed on the phone for longer than five minutes. I hated how distant we'd grown. Sometimes I told myself it was Kathy’s fault, and sometimes I wasn’t so sure.

We used to be close. We used to tell each other everything. But now it felt like I didn’t even know where Kathy lived. I had tried texting a few days ago. No reply.

Whatever. That’s just how Kathy was. Secretive. Busy. Gone.

Yet, I had dreamed of her again last night—barefoot, bleeding, holding something in her arms I couldn’t quite make out through the murk of dream-logic. Her voice had been low and urgent. “You’re not safe, Kimmie.”

I woke up gasping, heart pounding, with an uneasiness that coiled in my chest.

Despite everything, I texted her again. I always did. Some part of me still believed she'd reply.

Hey. You alive?

No response. No read receipt. No little gray bubbles. Just silence. The kind she was always so good at giving me.

After coffee, I took a long, too-hot shower, dressed, and drove to Sweet and Savory—my bakery, my pride, my refuge. Back in New York, I had been a rising star in a PR firm, armed with a marketing degree and an ego to match. But here in Crisfield, Maryland, I was the girl who served decadent chocolate soufflés and New York cheesecakes that made grown men weep.

The town had its charms. Quaint porches, familiar faces, the predictable rhythm of small-town life. But by noon, I felt the walls closing in.

Crisfield loved its rituals. Oyster trucks, farmer’s markets, church raffles, sunburned boat parades. I played my part. Wore my sundresses. Smiled in the grocery aisles when strangers stopped me with: “Oh, you’re Hank’s fiancée, right?”

I was always “Hank’s fiancée.” Never just Kimberly.

I looked too polished. Too lean. Too “other.” I was contouring and eyeliner in a town that preferred bare faces and work boots. I was jewelry when this place preferred sweat.

Still, I did the rounds. Picked up my dry cleaning from the same gruff old man who always called me “City Girl.” Finalized the table arrangements at the florist for the rehearsal dinner although the wedding was still months away. Hank wanted white roses. I wanted something with color. Something warm, alive—peonies, maybe. Lilies. We hadn’t decided. But I had a feeling I would cave.

Again.

When I got home, I felt hollow. Like something inside me had unraveled thread by thread, leaving only a shape of a woman who was supposed to be excited about her wedding.

I took another shower. Did a face mask. Curled my hair the way Hank liked—long waves, soft, romantic. Even though I wasn’t sure if I was doing it for him anymore. Or for me. Or for the version of myself I was clinging to, like shards of badly glued porcelain.

I tried calling Kathy around four.

Straight to voicemail.

Hey. I know you’re probably busy, but I... I just wanted to talk. That’s all. Nothing big. Just… call me, okay?

My voice cracked on the last word, and I immediately regretted how desperate I sounded.

But after Dad died, she was all I had left. The only real family I still wanted to claim.

Then my phone rang.

Hope bloomed in my chest like a reflex—maybe it was her. Maybe she heard the message and—

The name on the screen killed that feeling instantly.

Divine Williamson.

I took a slow breath, then answered.

“Good afternoon, Divine,” I said, stiffly polite, silently praying she was calling to cancel our pre-dinner negotiations.

“Your accent is improving, Kimberly,” she replied, her voice crisp and dry like over-steeped tea. “I’m calling to remind you of our closed-door meeting at five. Have you and your lawyer reviewed the pre-nuptial agreement clauses?”

Every syllable she uttered sounded like it had been scrubbed clean with bleach. Divine Williamson didn’t speak. She enunciated.

“We have,” I said, injecting as much faux-enthusiasm into my voice as I could. “Thoroughly.”

“Very well. I’ll see you at five. Don’t be late.”

Click.

No goodbye. Of course not.

I tossed the phone onto the vanity and looked at myself in the mirror. My mascara-free eyes stared back, hollow and unsure. I hadn’t even noticed I was holding my breath until I exhaled all at once, like a balloon deflating.

I sat there for a long minute, unmoving. My blue eyes traveled to my sun-kissed blonde hair, the slope of my cute nose, the high cheekbones I inherited from my mother, and my soft pink lips. Without makeup, I already looked… perfect. At least by magazine standards. And in any other world, that would’ve been enough.

But of course, according to Divine Williamson, I needed to cover my pores.

As if pores were a character flaw.

I picked up my makeup brush with fingers that trembled only slightly, dabbed on primer, and started layering on the mask. The cool product spread over my skin, smoothing me into submission. Concealer blurred away exhaustion. Foundation dulled the redness blooming under my eyes. I added contour, bronzer, highlighter—sharp enough to cut glass. Painted color back into my cheeks. Glossed my lips into a pout.

Finally, I looked up at my reflection.

She smiled back—flawless, composed, ready.

Even if I didn’t feel like her anymore.

But it didn’t matter how I felt. Not here. Not now. Not with Divine waiting.