Chapter 1

On the fifth anniversary of our wedding, what showed up on my phone wasn't flowers or a card — it was a video file.

There was my husband, Adrian Kingsley, wrapped up in the sheets of some five-star hotel room, laughing it up with another woman like I didn't even exist. And she wasn't just anyone. She was Charlotte Sinclair, the girl he'd loved long before I ever came into his life.

I sat at the restaurant table waiting for him and watched the whole thing without looking away. Then I set the phone down, picked up my fork, and finished my meal with a smile still fixed on my face.

Back home, I didn't cry. I called my attorney instead.

"I emailed you the divorce agreement — the one Adrian and I signed the day we got married, five years back. Tell me there's nothing wrong with it."

I said this standing at the window, though I wasn't really looking outside — my own reflection stared back instead. My thumb kept rubbing the edge of the phone case, over and over, like I could rub some feeling back into myself.

"I went through the whole thing, Ms. Sterling," came the reply, flat and businesslike. "It's airtight. You've got about four weeks left before the five-year mark. Once that date passes, the contract executes on its own. After that, it's just filing at the clerk's office."

Four weeks.

Only four more weeks.

"...Got it. Thank you."

I hung up and stood there, frozen, for a long moment.

Eventually my eyes drifted to the wall.

Our wedding portrait still hung right where it always had, as if nothing had shifted, as if the whole thing hadn't already rotted out from underneath.

I found myself walking toward it before I'd even decided to move.

In the photo I was glowing, practically — almost laughable now, looking back. The dress was blinding white, my eyes crinkled with a kind of hope that assumed forever was a given.

And there was Adrian beside me, in a suit that fit like it had been carved onto him, tall and untouchable. Handsome in that hard, chiseled way. But his face gave away nothing. No warmth. Not even the courtesy of faking it.

Anyone looking at that picture would've known.

He'd never loved me. Not once.

"...Almost over now," I murmured, tracing his printed face with my fingertip. Cold glass, nothing more — which, honestly, was all he'd ever really been to me. "You must be pleased."

Or maybe I just needed to hear myself say it.

The click of the front door snapped me out of it.

I yanked my hand back like I'd been caught at something and spun around fast.

"You're back."

The words came out softer than I meant them to.

He walked in the way he always did — like the world was expected to part for him. That was just Adrian. Heavy presence. Dangerous in a way you could feel in the room. People lowered their eyes when he passed.

A mafia boss. Royalty of the underworld.

I took his jacket as he shrugged it off and hung it up without needing to be asked. Then I knelt to trade his shoes for his slippers, my hands moving on autopilot.

I'd done this too many times to count.

Adrian tugged his tie loose, irritation already written across his face. "Next month's the Kingsley Global anniversary banquet," he said. "You're coming."

My hands paused for a beat.

I finished with the slippers anyway and stood. "I can't make it."

His head snapped up. "What do you mean you can't make it?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out right away.

Should I tell him his girlfriend had personally sent me their little home movie? Would it even matter if I did?

Before I could say anything, his expression had already gone dark, like he'd already guessed.

"...Don't tell me this is about Charlotte again." His voice dropped, gone cold and sharp. "I told you from day one there was someone else. You said you wouldn't interfere. Or was that just talk?"

The words landed exactly like they always did — clean, precise, a blade he knew exactly how to angle.

Something in my chest tightened so hard it nearly turned into a laugh.

What kind of man says that on his own wedding day? What kind of woman just agrees to it?

"That's not what this is." I forced it out, throat tight.

But wasn't it?

Or had I just run out of fight?

He scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Then what's the problem? It's one banquet. You've done it plenty of times. Show up, smile, play the part. That's all I'm asking."

Just show up.

Just smile.

Just keep pretending I wasn't quietly falling apart inside.

For one moment I wanted to ask him outright — had he ever felt even a flicker of guilt? Had he ever looked at me and actually seen his wife? But the words died before they left my mouth.

Because I already knew the answer.

Five years ago, when our families announced the engagement, I thought I'd won the lottery. I'd carried feelings for him longer than I'd ever admit. So when I found out I'd be marrying Adrian Kingsley, some foolish part of me thought — maybe this is fate.

Maybe he'd learn to love me eventually.

God, I was naive.

That same night, still in my wedding dress, he handed me a folder instead of touching me.

"There's someone I care about," he said, casual as talking about the weather. Cold. Detached. "She's not from a background my family would approve of. Give me five years."

I remember gripping that paper, hands shaking.

Five years?

"For those five years, you're my wife on paper," he went on. "By the time they're up, I'll control the Kingsley empire, and no one will dare question who I choose after that. Then" — he looked at me the way you'd look at a line in a contract — "we divorce. Clean. Simple."

I signed where he pointed that night, my hand moving like it wasn't mine. It was just done, like the ending had already been decided before I ever picked up the pen.

Afterward I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until sunrise — silent, shaking, my sleeve jammed against my mouth so no one would hear. As if muffling it could undo any of it.

Barely three months into the marriage, Charlotte vanished. Just gone. I heard there'd been some huge fight beforehand, though no one gave me details. I didn't need them — I could see what it did to him.

Adrian unraveled. He burned through every contact, every man loyal to him, every favor he was owed. A man who ran an entire criminal network, who could find anyone on earth — and still came up empty.

I watched him break.

Most nights he didn't come home. When he did, he reeked of liquor and cigarettes and something darker underneath. His eyes always looked hollow, like sleep had become a stranger. I wanted to ask if he was okay. I never did. What right did I have?

Then one night he came back completely wrecked — barely able to stand, yet still moving like the house belonged to him.

Before I could say anything, his hands were on me.

"Adrian—" I started, voice cracking.

He didn't answer.

He pushed me down onto the bed like I weighed nothing. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might tear through my ribs. Was this happening? Was he finally—?

Then his mouth crashed into mine and I froze completely. Whiskey, bitter and suffocating.

"...Charlotte..." his voice broke, rough and desperate against my skin. "Why the hell did you leave, huh? Why'd you run off with him? Did you think I wouldn't come after you? You didn't trust me that much?"

Everything in me went still. My body locked up beneath him. So he'd found her after all. And she'd still walked away regardless. Which left me exactly where I'd always been — a stand-in. A shadow of someone else. Something to hold onto because the real thing was out of reach.