Chapter 1

Eliza's POV 

The stick in my hand stayed cruelly single-lined. Negative. Again.

I stared at it longer than I should have, waiting for that faint second line to appear like it sometimes did in my dreams. Nothing. Just one lonely blue mark mocking me from the bathroom counter. I had done this same thing every single month for three years. Same brand, same time of day, same hope that crashed the same way.

Three years of marriage. No baby. No bump. No tiny kicks. Nothing to hold, nothing to show anyone. People at parties asked the usual questions with those pity smiles, and I learned to laugh it off. "We're enjoying just us for now," I'd say. Lies. All lies.

I used to cry after these tests. The first year, tears came fast and hot. The second year, they were quieter. This time? Nothing. My eyes stayed dry. Maybe I had finally run out of tears, or maybe the hurt had turned into something harder, something cold that sat heavy in my chest.

I heard Scott's shoes on the marble floor. He was coming toward the kitchen. My heart jumped—not from excitement, but from panic. I grabbed the nearest newspaper from the counter, wrapped the test stick tight inside it like I was hiding evidence, then pushed the whole bundle deep into the waste bin under coffee grounds and eggshells. The maids cleaned every evening. No one could see my failure.

Scott walked in. Tall, perfect suit, that easy smile he wore like a second skin. He leaned in and kissed my cheek without really looking at me. His lips barely touched my skin. He was already scrolling on his phone.

"Dinner at Le Cie tonight. 6:30," he said, voice flat like he was reading from a schedule. Not like a man excited to spend time with his wife. Just information.

"Okay," I answered softly.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. "For you."

I opened it. Diamond earrings. Beautiful. Sparkling. Exactly like the pair he gave me last Christmas. Same cut, same size. "To match the necklace," he said, already turning away.

I closed the box. "Thank you."

He nodded, kissed the air near my forehead, and left for his study. The room felt colder the second he was gone.

I stood there holding the box, feeling like one of those store mannequins he dressed up every season. New earrings. New dress. New bag. All perfect. All empty.

His tablet sat forgotten on the kitchen island. Black screen, sleek, expensive. I picked it up, thinking I would take it to him later. My thumb brushed the screen by accident. It lit up. No passcode. He trusted me that much. Or maybe he just didn't care.

A Slack notification was still open at the top.

From: Michael Reyes (CFO)

"Meeting confirmed with Thorne’s people. The merger play is aggressive. Keep your wife in the dark. She still has soft spots."

My fingers went numb. The tablet almost slipped from my hand.

Thorne. Adam Thorne.

My father's company. The one Dad built from nothing after years of sweat and late nights. The company I inherited when Dad died two years ago. The company Scott had been "managing" for me since we married because I "didn't like the stress."

Merger.

Aggressive.

Keep your wife in the dark.

She still has soft spots.

Soft spots. That was me. The emotional wife who might cry or fight if she knew her father's legacy was being sold off.

My stomach twisted. I scrolled up quickly. More messages. Numbers. Terms like "hostile bid," "board approval," "non-disclosure." Scott's replies were short, calm, all business.

I set the tablet down exactly where it was. My hands shook so badly I had to press them against the counter.

He was planning to sell my company. My father's company. And he didn't want me to know.

I walked to the living room on legs that felt like wood. Sat on the white sofa. Stared at the wall. Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time blurred.

My phone buzzed. A text from Scott.

Urgent. Come to my office now.

My first thought was worry. Something happened at work. An accident. A problem.

Then the Slack message flashed in my mind again.

Was this it? Was he finally going to tell me? Or was he going to lie to my face like he had been doing for months?

I stood up. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. Part of me wanted to run upstairs, pack a bag, disappear. Another part—the stupid, hopeful part—wanted to believe he would explain everything. That there was a good reason. That he still loved me enough to be honest.

I walked down the long hallway to his private suite. The door was heavy, dark wood, polished until it shone like a mirror. My reflection looked small and pale.

I lifted my hand. Fingers touched the cool handle.

I took one last breath.

Then I pushed the door open.