Prodigal Wife

The Husla private airport tarmac shimmered under the relentless morning sun. Stepping off the private jet, Mia felt a wave of nausea roll through her stomach.

It wasn't just the heat. It was the throng of reporters camped outside, their cameras flashing like a demented strobe light.

News of their arrival had spread like wildfire, and a throng of reporters, their faces a hungry mix of concern and sensationalism, pressed against the security barriers.

"Vanessa! Mrs. Rosewood! Over here!" A cacophony of voices clamored for her attention.

Mia shrank back instinctively, her eyes darting from the blinding flashes to the eager faces holding microphones. She knew without a doubt that Henry had let word out about their arrival, hence they were there.

He had claimed he had suitable clothes for her to change into, yet had given her nothing. Here she was, still dressed in the sleeping clothes she had worn to bed at Tom's and an in-house slippers.