He was beautiful. Strong. Charismatic. Sexy as fuck. Had been from the moment I met him.

I was me. He’d never told me I was beautiful. It didn’t matter. I never valued that part of romance anyway.

He liked my brain. He liked my athleticism. He liked my business success.

He also liked tall blondes.

I am most definitely not a tall blonde. But, I thought, I could be.

I planned it for a week. I bought the lingerie. I bought the honey powder and the makeup. I bought the fine chocolate and the single malt he enjoyed. I bought candles.

I bought the shoes with very high heels.

And I bought the long, blonde wig.

The night came. The candles were lit. I took a last look in the mirror and although I didn’t look anything like me, I looked pretty damn good, I thought, for an awkward, brainy girl.

This would be fun!

My hopes were high. My spirit soaring. It had been a while since we’d been intimate, and a much longer time since we’d had really mind-blowing sex and laughter together.

Tonight was going to change things. I was sure of it.

It would be the start of a new life together.

I heard the front door. I could barely breathe, I was so happy.

Heard his footsteps down the hall. I smiled brilliantly as he came in the door.

He took one look at me and walked away.

For hours.

I cried myself to sleep. When he came to bed, he was careful not to touch me.

The next day, he screamed that I looked like a whore. That he couldn’t believe I would ever even think of doing something like that to him. That only a slut would wear that color of red lipstick. Why would I ever imagine that he would have married such a pathetic, unlovable excuse for a woman.

My first time ever actually trying to be sexy. I was 32.

I died inside that night, when my husband—the man who claimed to love me more than anyone in the world—walked away from me with disgust on his face.