Chapter 2

If my brain were a person, it would currently be filing a restraining order against me.

Every pulse of blood behind my eyes felt like a tiny, angry construction worker swinging a sledgehammer against my skull. I didn't want to open my eyes. If I kept them closed, I could pretend I was in my new, modest apartment with the slightly creaky floorboards and the neighbors who played jazz at 2:00 AM. I could pretend I hadn't spent the last six hours doing exactly what I told my therapist I would never do again.

But the air gave it away. My new apartment smelled like vanilla candles and cheap takeout. This air smelled like mountain air, expensive laundry detergent, and the cold, lingering scent of cedarwood.

I was in the penthouse.

I groaned, the sound catching in my dry throat, and slowly peeled one eye open. The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows was a personal insult. It illuminated the massive, 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets that were currently tangled around my naked legs. These sheets cost more than my first college tuition, and yet, they felt like a shroud.

What just happened? I sat up too fast, and the room tilted on its axis. Memories began to leak into my brain like toxic sludge. I remembered the club. I remembered the "Happy Divorce" banner. I remembered Dominic’s hand on my waist, pulling me into the back of his Maybach.

And then, the arguing. Oh, the arguing. We had spent three years fighting with polite, icy silences, but last night, we had finally shouted. We had shouted about the settlement, about the house in the Hamptons, about the way he never looked at me when I spoke. And somewhere between the screaming and the tears, the clothes had started coming off.

It was the most passionate we’d been since the honeymoon. Which was pathetic. Truly, deeply pathetic. I had just signed away my rights to his name, only to spend the night screaming it into a pillow.

"You’re finally awake. I was beginning to think I’d have to call a coroner."

The voice came from the doorway. I didn't even have to look to feel the temperature in the room drop twenty degrees.

Dominic Thorne was leaning against the doorframe. He wasn't in his pajamas. He wasn't messy. He was wearing a crisp, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing those forearms that had no business being that distracting. His hair was perfectly styled, and his jaw was freshly shaven. He looked like he’d been up for hours, closing deals and crushing souls.

"Water," I croaked, pulling the duvet up to my chin. "And don't speak so loudly. Your ego is echoing."

He walked toward the bed, his footsteps silent on the plush silk rug. He set a glass of lemon water and two Advil on the nightstand. For a fleeting second, I looked for a spark of something in his eyes. A lingering warmth? A hint of regret? Maybe even a smile?

Nothing. He looked at me the way an auditor looks at a math error.

"The car is waiting downstairs to take you to your apartment," he said, his voice flat and professional. "I have a board meeting at ten."

"Right. Of course. God forbid the shareholders wait while you deal with the wreckage of your personal life." I reached for the water, my hand shaking just enough for him to notice. I hated that he noticed.

He didn't respond to the jab. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He laid it on the bed next to my leg.

"What’s this?" I asked. "A bill for the room service?"

"It’s a Post-Nuptial Addendum," Dominic said. He pulled a Montblanc pen from his pocket and clicked it. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. "Last night was... an anomaly. A lapse in judgment brought on by excessive alcohol and emotional volatility. I’ve had my lawyers draft a quick agreement stating that our physical encounter last night does not constitute a reconciliation. It ensures that the terms of the divorce settlement we signed yesterday remain unchanged."

I stared at the paper. The legalese blurred in front of my eyes, but the intent was crystal clear.

He was terrified I would use the fact that we slept together to ask for more money. He was protecting his fortresses. He was treating the most intimate night of our marriage like a security breach that needed a patch.

The Advil felt like lead in my stomach. The hurt was there, sharp and stinging, but I refused to let him see it. I was Sera Rossi. I was the woman who had danced on a bar top twelve hours ago. I didn't do "hurt."

"You really are a piece of work, Dominic," I said, a jagged laugh breaking out of my chest. "You think I want more of your money? I’d pay a billion dollars just to never have to hear the sound of your heart not beating again."

I snatched the pen from his hand. My fingers brushed his, and I felt that familiar, traitorous spark. I ignored it and scrawled my name across the bottom of the document with a flourish that probably looked more like a scribble.

"There," I said, shoving the paper and the pen back at his chest. "Your precious billions are safe. You can go back to your board meeting and tell them the 'Sera Problem' has been liquidated."

He took the paper, his gaze lingering on my face for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Seraphina—"

"Don't," I snapped. I threw the duvet aside, not caring that I was wearing nothing but a smirk and a hangover. I strode toward the bathroom, my head spinning, and grabbed my sequined dress from the floor where it had been discarded in a hurry the night before. "Last night wasn't an anomaly, Dom. It was a mistake. A huge, boring, mediocre mistake."

He stiffened. I saw his jaw clench, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. Score one for Sera.

"Mediocre?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave.

"Totally," I lied, stepping into my heels. I felt like a disaster, but I stood tall. "I’ve had better appetizers at a funeral. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to start. One that doesn't involve checking with a lawyer before I breathe."

I didn't wait for him to respond. I didn't look back at the bed. I marched out of that bedroom, through the marble-clad living room, and toward the private elevator. My heart was thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I made it all the way to the elevator doors before I reached up to touch my ear. It was a habit, a nervous tick. My hand met empty skin.

I froze. My other hand flew to my left ear. The diamond stud was there—the one my grandmother had given me. But the right one was gone.

I looked down at the floor, then back toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. I knew exactly where it was. It was buried in those 1,000-thread-count sheets. It was trapped in the fortress.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding.

I looked at the gold-mirrored interior of the elevator, then back at the closed door of the penthouse. If I went back, I’d have to face him again. I’d have to see that cold, calculating look in his eyes while I hunted for a piece of jewelry in the bed we just shared. I’d have to admit I left something behind.

Forget it, I thought, stepping into the elevator and hitting the button for the lobby. It’s just a diamond. I can buy a new one.

But as the elevator descended, I felt a strange, hollow sensation in my chest. I had left the earring. I had left my dignity. And as the morning sun hit the glass, I realized I’d left a lot more than that.

I just didn't know yet that the most important thing I’d left behind wasn't a piece of jewelry. It was a tiny, microscopic secret that was currently hitching a ride in my DNA—one that no "Post-Nuptial Addendum" could ever protect Dominic from.