Chapter 1

My brother's heart stopped. I called my billionaire husband twenty-seven times. He picked up on the last one.

"A hundred thirty-six grand? I'm not a charity. That's not what my money's for."

"Grant, please. The doctor says any longer and there's brain damage. I'll pay it all back."

He laughed. "Your brother's been a money pit for years. Figure it out yourself."

Behind me, someone in the OR shouted, "Defib ready."

My knees almost gave out.

"He's twenty-two years old. I'm begging you."

"Begging doesn't change facts. Adults need to learn to carry their own weight."

He hung up.

A few seconds later, a GoFundMe setup link appeared in my messages.

Then a notification.

Donor: Grant Elliston. $10.

Comment: Adults need to learn to carry their own weight.

I stared at the ten dollars on my screen and crouched outside the OR, shaking so hard I couldn't feel my legs.

At two-thirty in the morning, I went back to the Elliston penthouse to grab Ethan's old medical records.

No lights on. But Grant's voice drifted out from his study. Soft. Warm. A tone I hadn't heard directed at me in years.

"Order a Panamera for Lena. The pink one. Four hundred K. Put it on the company card."

A pause.

"She rode one of those rental bikes today and fell off. Scraped her knee a little."

Another pause.

"Girls shouldn't have scars. Get her a driver from now on. That car picks her up and drops her off every day."

Lena Harper. An intern who'd been at his company for seventeen days.

Then, still on the phone, his voice dropped even softer.

"The Swiss rehab center. Skip the waitlist, pay for the VIP fast-track. Her ankle got a little scratch. Book the scar treatment too while we're at it."

He hung up. Turned. Saw me standing in the hallway.

He didn't flinch. He smiled.

"See? That's how it's done. Adults handle their own problems."

He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, showed me.

"I donated to your GoFundMe too. Ten bucks. You're my wife, so I figured I'd throw in some support."

I looked at him.

"Ten dollars?"

He shrugged. "It's not about the amount. It's the thought that counts."

Ten dollars. The thought that counts.

I asked quietly, "And Lena? She scraped her ankle. You booked her a Swiss rehab spot and a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car."

His eyes went cold. "Lena is different. Her sister saved my life. I owe the Harpers everything."

"So Ethan's life has to make way for her scraped knee?"

His voice turned sharp. "Stop dragging Ethan into everything. Nora Harper died in that fire. Can your family stop using sickness to bleed me dry?"

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

He must have noticed something on my face because he pulled out the first-aid kit, peeled off a bandage, and pressed it over my cracked fingernail.

"Pain is pain. Don't turn it into an excuse to take from people."

Years ago, Elliston Corp nearly went bankrupt. Grant collapsed with a stomach hemorrhage.

I sat beside his hospital bed for three days and three nights. My phone buzzed nonstop. Creditors. Every single one.

I called everyone I knew. Begged every favor I could. Wired money piece by piece while he lay unconscious.

When he woke up, he held my hand and said, "Vivian, I owe you for the rest of my life."

But later, he gave his guilt to the Harpers. His patience to Lena.

All I got were lectures about being a responsible adult.

I pulled my hand away.

Went into the bedroom.

Came back with the divorce papers.

This agreement I'd drafted months ago. Revised again and again.

Since the first time he ditched me for Lena's birthday dinner.

Since the first time he called Ethan "a long-term liability."

Tonight, the line snapped.

I signed my name.

Vivian Ashford.

My hand didn't shake.