Once upon a time, I believed in romance, thanks mostly to Jane Austen and my happy-ever-after peddling mother. I believed in love and soul mates and happy endings until the day I found my professor husband compromising his teaching assistant on our kitchen table. As a lowly adjunct professor, I bore the brunt of the fallout. Suddenly, I was divorced, without a job, and in possession of a vendetta against Jane Austen.