"The Exes" by Leodora Darlington is the "GMA" Book Club pick for February.
This relationship-focused thriller follows the story of Natalie, who is trying to make sure her husband James does not wind up dead like her three former lovers.
While struggling to avoid the lethal fate, Natalie is also forced to reckon with what exactly happened to her former boyfriends, and how each ended up dead.
Read an excerpt and get a copy of the book below.
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What they don't tell you about betrayal is that it eats you slowly. Long after the raised voices and slammed doors, after the tears -- if there are any -- it makes a home where your Good Feelings live and begins to gnaw at fond memories, trust, intimacy. Gnaw until you're full of holes, nothing left untouched but paranoia and the distinct sense of having loved a stranger.
Paranoia and loneliness are what I'm left clinging to as my husband cries in the room next door. I think about banging on the wall, telling him to quiet down. There is still music and laughter vibrating up through the floorboards from the party downstairs, but I'm worried that people will hear him. I've already been humiliated enough; I don't need our guests to hear our marriage going to s---, too.
A hollow wail pierces the room and my hands curl into tight fists. I close my eyes, breathe evenly. I'm not sure how or why he's the one in pieces when it's him who's destroyed our relationship, but here we are. Once I would have gone and furled myself around him. Made myself soft, pliable. A petal around a wasp. That might be how my mother raised me, but I've long since grown tired of watching women like her try to sweep dust from men's eyes while they have planks in their own planks the men usually put there.
Downstairs, someone changes the track to ABBA's "Dancing Queen." A dull pain begins to throb through my thumb, and I realize that the kitchen knife is still gripped in my hand. The fleshy tip is pressing into the blunt edge of the steel above the handle. I will myself to let the knife go. For a moment, it feels like I can't. I won't. But then I remember the blood already on my hands, still unclean after all these years. The violent rages I can't clearly remember. And with the ghost of that darkness haunting me anew, I tuck the knife beneath the crisp, cold underside of the pillow on the guest bed.
I can't let that white-hot rage loose. Not again.
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I sometimes wonder, if we'd met at a different time, in a different place, whether things might have ended differently, too. I don't think there was ever really the possibility of a happy ending. So much stood between us -- so much history, so much blood -- that the way things have worked out is sort of fitting.
Despite that, I really do think it's a shame that things have turned out this way. I did love you. I think. Perhaps.
I would have certainly given you almost anything you'd have asked of me. I guess, though, when the chips were down, what you wanted was something I just couldn't give.
I'm sorry for everything I've done.
I'm sorry for what I've put you through.
But now, after everything, I think we both have to agree that what we have between us needs to come to an end. As much as we've been at odds, I don't believe you'd fight me on that. As much as we've been at odds, I think you'd agree that only one of us can come out of this marriage alive.
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Watching without being seen is an art I've mastered, but this afternoon, I'm sort of hoping I am. Seen, that is. It's a surprisingly sunny afternoon on Christmas Eve, and I'm sitting in an East London food hall, pretending to work on my beat-up laptop, half-paralyzed by a desire to be noticed and an abject fear of it. He's several benches away from me, a devastatingly handsome smile on his face as the dark-haired man beside him speaks. My eyes latch on to the firm press of their shoulders against each other and I wonder what it would be like to have his shoulder against mine. Wonder what the over-tinseled tree behind him would look like in a home of our own. Although at this point in my life, not feeling lonely at this time of year would be a true Christmas miracle.
Occasionally, I lose sight of him as the abacus rows of heads shift between us, but it's enough for me, for now. Right on cue, as if to stop me from gorging myself on him, the table of twentysomethings sitting across from me slide along to let a new friend onto their bench, obscuring the view of the man I came here for. They snap pictures and squeal, mouths wide, eyes gleaming. I'd probably look that jolly, too, if I were a bottle and a half of prosecco deep.
For a moment, my stubby, bare brown fingers hover over my keyboard, the speed-typing test on my screen counting the clock down to zero. It takes an effort not to waste time staring at the young women, disappointed. I can't afford to drop so much money so often to look like they do. I can't even really afford to be sitting here, knocking back oat milk flat whites at almost four pounds a pop, but he's here, as I knew he'd be. Can't a girl allow herself a little treat?
I can imagine what life would be like were he mine. Or not quite "imagine" -- I've never seemed to have the creativity for that -- but I slot myself into visions I've seen. The happy couple next door with the six-grand pram (I've googled it). The loved-up newlyweds on the latest season of my favorite reality show. I can take the scalpel of my limited imagination and cut around the young woman, lift her out of the picture, and insert myself in. And in doing so, I can see how I would be happy with Him. Secure, for once.
"Anything else?" a voice asks behind me. I jump, startled. The incredibly friendly staff here have an incredibly quiet way of creeping up on you.
My eyes try to see through the throng of bodies. See if he's seen me. If he discovers I'm here, he'll want to know why, and I'm not sure my flimsy excuse will cut it.
"Um, sure. Another oat flat white, please."
"Sure! Coming right up."
Anxiety supercharged by caffeine hitches my heart rate up a notch. I can't tell if my man has looked this way. A break in the sea of heads seems to be forming but is quickly filled by a middle-aged couple taking a seat a couple of benches down. My eyes snag on the way the man catches the woman's elbow to ease her down, her pale hand going to cradle what I can now see is a rounded belly. I'm elated for her. I'm terrified by the force of the Want that rips through me. A hand goes to my flat stomach.
I come to the conclusion that if I can't see him, then surely he can't see me, albeit aware that I might be falling victim to toddler logic. Truth be told, I'm not sure James has ever really seen me. I first met him a year ago when he was showing me around the office. I say "office"; really, it was a single tiny room in a co-working space. His business with his brother, Will, was still very much in its infancy, although things had been growing, fast, and they suddenly found themselves with more employees and admin than they could handle. The business, East London Chill, was an organic CBD-infused lager company. It was a rapidly successful venture. I was the thirteenth employee to join the company and liked to think of that as a lucky thing, even if the fact that I, entirely unexperienced, somehow represented the company's whole HR department in addition to my role as office manager.
Now there are thirty of us, and I'm still the entirety of HR. Fortunately, James is a good boss. Hardworking, fair, and kind. He's pushed to get his brother, Will, into line (although admittedly, Will might have just run out of employees to sleep with). His unwavering sense of Goodness is exactly what's drawn me to him and why I'll never have a chance. That, and the way his cheeks dimple when he's trying to hold in a laugh. The zeal he has for the small details, for how and why things work, making the most mundane process feel interesting. The easy way praise trips off his tongue -- easy but earnest -- I could bathe in it. His passion. His drive. His togetherness. Liking James is Nice. If there's anything the therapy I can't afford has taught me, it's that I'm normally drawn to the wrong men like a moth to a flame. Therapy, and what happened to my sister.
I don't like to think about it. The mere thought makes me want to peel my own skin off and hide in it.
It would hurt.
And it would deserve to.
Still, even if my taste in men is improving, I have a lot of damage to heal. Too much to allow myself to get close to someone new. As long as I hold James at a distance, as long as I only allow myself to daydream about him, we can both remain safe.
From the book "THE EXES" by Leodora Darlington. Copyright © 2026 by Leodora Darlington. Published by Dutton, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.
Audio excerpted with permission of Penguin Random House Audio from THE EXES by Leodora Darlington, read by Amaka Okafor, Avita Jay, Leodora Darlington, Sebastian Humphreys and Yasmin Mwanza. Leodora Darlington ℗ 2026 Penguin Random House, LLC. All rights reserved.
