Chapter 1

At my dream wedding, in front of five hundred guests, my husband grabbed the mic and called me a whore.

The emcee all smiles.

"Mr. Ford and Miss Shaw have been together seven whole years. Tell us — what are you two best at?"

Every eye in the ballroom turned to us, glowing with envy.

My cheeks went hot. I was so sure he'd say something like, "I'm best at loving her."

Instead, Ethan spun the ring on his finger, lazy, and let out a small laugh.

"Me? I'm not really good at anything."

"But my wife, Nina — she's a pro at turning tricks."

Dead silence. Except his boys at table one, howling like it was open mic night.

The emcee coughed into his fist, sweat rolling down his temple.

"Mr. Ford, always such a jokester. I'm sure Miss Shaw is a wonderful cook at home."

Ethan cut him off flat.

"Not cooking. Hooking."

"You don't get it? She's slept with half this city. Been passed around like a party favor. Clear enough for you?"

Five hundred people. You could hear a pin drop.

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I stood there beside him in the wedding dress I'd spent three months designing, ears ringing like someone had shot a gun next to my head.

Third row, my mom froze in her seat, lips trembling so hard the nurse beside her had to grip her shoulders to keep her down.

Ethan's mother sat perfectly straight. She lifted her champagne flute and took a delicate sip.

She knew. She'd known exactly what he was going to say.

I squeezed my bouquet so hard my nails cut into my palm.

Whispers started slithering through the ballroom.

"Wait — she used to be one of those girls?"

"No wonder old Mrs. Ford held out seven years before letting them marry…"

"Look at her face. I'm not shocked."

The emcee stared at the wedding planner. She shook her head so hard I thought it might snap off.

I finally found my voice, dry as sandpaper. "Ethan. What the hell are you saying?"

He turned to me, unhurried, and reached out to wipe a single tear off my cheek.

Soft. Gentle. Like a totally different man from the one who'd just spoken.

"Nina." He murmured my name, thumb sliding along my jaw. "You really think I'd talk crazy at my own wedding?"

One of his buddies down front whistled.

I was shaking all over.

Seven years. Seven years with Ethan Ford.

College. First jobs. Cheap rentals. Then his big house on the hill.

Seven years of him blocking shots for me at dinners, sitting with me in ERs, walking me through every stupid romantic moment I'd ever wanted.

I thought he loved me.

Now I wasn't so sure.

It took everything I had to stay upright and not black out on the spot.

The wedding wrapped up in a mess. Guests filed out whispering, half of them filming.

I couldn't even imagine what was already blowing up online.

Ethan dragged me by the wrist into the hotel's penthouse suite. The second the door shut, he let go and walked straight to the bar to pour himself a whiskey.

I stood by the door, my train pooled around my feet.

"Why?" I asked. "If you didn't want to marry me, you didn't have to. Nobody forced you. Why smear me like that?"

He tossed the whiskey back in one gulp. Turned. Smiled.

"Who said I didn't want to?"

He walked over, slow, one step at a time, until we were half an arm apart.

Then he leaned down and kissed me on the mouth.

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