Your roof? I pay for every inch of this place.

Bianca’s pov

My gaze darts between Brandon and this other woman. “What is happening?”

Brandon does not grant me the courtesy of looking back. He simply takes Rosa’s hand to guide her away. “Do not be difficult, Bianca. We are tired.”

“Absolutely not.” The tremor in my voice is pure, undiluted shock. “She is not spending the night in this home.”

He continues walking as if I have said nothing.

“Are you listening to me? She is not welcome here! Take her the fuck back to wherever you found her. I do not want her under my roof.”

He pauses, casting a cold look over his shoulder. “Your roof? I pay for every inch of this place. If I decide she is staying, then she is staying. You are free to leave if it bothers you. I do not have the patience for one of your scenes.”

My God. The air leaves my lungs. “How can you do this?” I demand. “Do not you dare walk away from me. You will stand here and explain this.”

Rosa glances back, a smug little smile playing on her lips. “You will need to move your things to the guest room, by the way. I have no intention of sharing a bed with you. It is bad enough sharing a man.”

All the fight drains out of me in an instant. I am rooted to the spot, mute and paralyzed. I cannot draw a full breath. I hear their muted laughter as they disappear into the master bedroom. My bedroom. They are exiling me from my own space.

The walls of the living room begin to press in on me.

I stagger to the front door, wrench it open, and flee outside. I have no destination, only a primal need to be anywhere else.

“Ma’am, is everything all right?” It is Felix, Brandon’s bodyguard. He is polishing the Rolls-Royce, his expression concerned as he takes in my ragged state.

I thrust my hand out. “The keys.”

“Ma’am?”

“Give me the fucking keys, Felix.”

He hesitates for only a moment before placing them in my palm. I know he is wondering why I need Brandon’s car and not my own. The truth is, I do not know either. But if I remain in that house for one more second, I will completely come apart.

“Mrs. Evans, please, allow me to drive you.”

“No. I am driving myself.”

I pull out of the driveway and accelerate into the darkness.

Over an hour later, I am still driving with no purpose. My thoughts are a chaotic mess of Brandon and Rosa and their infuriating, superior expressions. My original plan for a Saturday evening manicure feels like it belonged to another woman, one who was merely annoyed with her husband, not one whose life has been dismantled. It has not even been two days since he declared our marriage open, a announcement that nearly stopped my heart, and now he has moved his mistress into our home? The same Rosa?

The most insane part is that I cannot cry. I feel utterly vacant. No tears, no rage, just a cavernous emptiness inside. The last therapist I saw called it a defense mechanism, a denial of my true feelings. Let it out, Bianca, she would urge. Free yourself from the weight of it.

They can all go to hell. Brandon. Rosa. The therapist. My whole fucking family.

I know what I need now. A drink.

I find the closest bar and walk inside.

“A whiskey,” I tell the man behind the counter. “Neat. And do not stop pouring.”

“Rough night?”

“I am not in the mood to chat,” I say.

He sets the first glass down and I throw it back, embracing the fire in my throat. It is a brutal, welcome sensation, far preferable to imagining what is unfolding in the home that is no longer mine.

As I am finishing the second shot, I hear a voice call out, “Maggie! Maggie!”

I turn, confused, and see a tall, strikingly attractive man moving toward me, his focus entirely on my face. Before I can form a question, his arms are around me.

“Thank God I found you,” he says, pulling me into a close embrace.

I go rigid. “Who the hell are you?”

“Please, just play along,” he murmurs against my ear. “I will explain everything.”

Before I can shove him away, a woman with a furious expression marches over.

“Julian! I knew I would find you here. You cannot avoid me.”

The stranger, Julian, turns to face her, his arm still a possessive band around my shoulders. “Veronica. What a surprise,” he says, the picture of forced calm.

“My name is Lyra.”

Julian offers her a contrite smile. “Right, my mistake. I mix them up sometimes. This is Maggie, my wife.”

He lifts my hand, displaying my wedding ring, and I almost choke. What in God’s name is going on?

Lyra glares at me with pure venom. “You married this piece of shit?”

I have no words, so I just give a slow, dazed nod.

“You should divorce him,” she snaps. “He spends one night with you and vanishes. What kind of man does that?”

“But that was the entire arrangement. A single night…” Julian tries to interject, but she talks over him.

“Fuck you, Julian.”

With that, she spins around and storms out, leaving the two of us standing in a bubble of shared astonishment.

Julian releases a long breath. “Well, she was a stalker. At least she is gone now.” He turns to me, a genuine smile finally appearing. “Can I buy you a drink? You have definitely earned it.”

I stare at him, then at the empty space where the furious woman had been. It all occurred in a dizzying rush. My brain cannot catch up. I know one thing for certain: I need that drink.

“Make it two,” I say. And Julian smiles.