Her [antikvár]

PROLOGUEShe was my fiancé's ex-fiancée, the mother of all exes, my worst nightmare incarnate. Exceeder of all expectations, destroyer of trust, obliterator of reason, rationality, sanity, she was my nemesis, my tormentor, the one I could not get over.Her name was Adrienne, and I knew she had come to cause trouble.It didn't take long.Of French descent (France, not Canada), a graduate of Yale (Masters in Art History), an avid rock and mountain climber (Kilimanjaro, 1995), horrifyingly gorgeous (more, much more, about that later), and recently single (Francesco, her Spanish painter boyfriend, had, it seemed, once too often, threatened suicide if she refused to marry him), she dropped back into Donald's life, and thus into mine, right before our wedding.I'll cut to the chase:I did not handle it well.I behaved badly, became unhinged, undone, an addict in constant need of a fix.