Chapter 1- Gone.

The thick red carpet beneath my silver Valentino Garavani sandals was the only thing guiding me toward the entrance.

Those annoying camera flashes had nearly impaired my vision.

William walked beside me with one hand resting comfortably against the small of my back, and I was pretty certain even he was having trouble seeing through the hundreds of flashes exploding in our direction.

“Mia! Over here!”

“Governor Peterson!”

“Mia, look this way!”

“Governor! Governor!”

“Smile, honey,” William murmured for what had to be the fifth time.

As if that were easy.

William Peterson did this for a living.

The man ate political reporters for breakfast.

Standing in front of hundreds of cameras was as natural to him as standing in front of a bathroom mirror while brushing his teeth.

I, on the other hand, preferred standing behind a canvas.

Unfortunately, being Mia Sterling meant cameras had become part of my career too.

And being married to William Peterson meant there was almost always another annoying camera waiting.

My husband was a bulldog in the political world.

He knew how to work a room before he'd even entered it. He remembered names, spouses, children, donors, journalists, judges, union leaders, and people he'd met for thirty seconds six years earlier.

And somehow, he always knew exactly where the cameras were.

“We'll keep trying,” he whispered, his smile never leaving his face. “Don't let this ruin such an important night.”

For one second, my own smile faltered.

He was talking about the negative pregnancy test I'd stared at for nearly an hour only minutes before we'd left the house.

Negative.

One sad word.

I wasn't exactly desperate to become a mother.

My career was at its highest point, and motherhood had never been something I felt needed to happen immediately.

But William and I had been married for almost five years.

Apparently, that meant my uterus had become an acceptable topic of conversation during every holiday dinner, family gathering, charity event, and—more recently—political press conference.

During the announcement of William's reelection campaign, one reporter had actually shouted the question from the press pool.

“When should New York expect the Governor's first child?”

William hadn't missed a beat.

Of course he hadn't.

He'd smiled, leaned down, and kissed my temple.

“Soon. Mia needs a little time to organize her upcoming exhibitions, and then we'll begin working on it.”

Everyone laughed.

Including me.

What else was I supposed to do?

Announce my ovulation schedule?

I had no doubt William would win another term. He came from a long lineage of political power, and most of New York adored him.

He was handsome.

Educated.

Charismatic.

Ruthlessly ambitious when necessary.

And incredibly good at making people believe he was speaking directly to them, even when ten thousand people were listening.

His campaign team, however, apparently believed there was one thing missing from the perfect Peterson portrait.

A baby.

A young governor.

His beautiful artist wife.

A child.

The perfect Christmas card.

His campaign manager had never directly told me, Get pregnant so your husband can win an election. He was far too intelligent for that.

But he'd certainly explained how well a growing Peterson family would play with family-oriented voters.

So, yes.

Tonight's negative test had been disappointing.

Even if part of me hated admitting why.

“Mia!”

I turned toward another wall of cameras.

“Mia Sterling!”

One reporter raised her voice above the others.

“Is tonight the highlight of your career?”

I stopped.

William stopped with me.

Then I smiled.

This time, genuinely.

“It's only one of them,” I replied. “There will be plenty more.”

William leaned closer.

“I love your ego.”

I kept smiling for the cameras.

“I've earned it.”

“That you have.”

He kissed me lightly, careful not to destroy the bright red lipstick I'd chosen specifically to match the carpet.

The flashes went annoyingly insane.

Of course they did.

Governor William Peterson kissing his famous wife apparently qualified as breaking news.

Tonight's exhibition centered around a deceptively simple painting of mine that had somehow become the obsession of several collectors.

Simple in appearance.

Not in meaning.

I'd poured a piece of myself into that canvas.

Apparently, people could tell.

The highest bid currently stood at five hundred and ten thousand dollars.

Half a million dollars for something that had once existed only inside my head.

I still hadn't decided whether that was beautiful or completely ridiculous.

Hannah, my gallerist, insisted it should've gone higher.

According to her, interest had been relatively conservative until my name became publicly attached to the work.

Then the serious collectors arrived.

Bids climbed.

Phones started ringing.

And suddenly everyone wanted the painting they'd barely noticed before they knew Mia Sterling had painted it.

There was something both flattering and insulting about that.

“Oh. My. God.”

I knew that voice.

I turned.

“What?”

Isabella stared at me as if I'd arrived naked.

“You look ravishing.”

Her eyes traveled over me.

“No. Fuck ravishing. You look like a goddess.”

“I know.”

She stared at me.

I burst out laughing.

“You are so fucking humble.”

“I try.”

Then I abandoned my husband's arm and wrapped my best friend in mine.

“I was beginning to wonder whether a trip to Barcelona would be necessary to retrieve you myself. You do have a remarkable talent for making people worry.”

“Oh, honey. Believe me when I say I only came back because of this.” She gestured dramatically toward the enormous painting displayed beyond us in the main exhibition space.

My smile changed.

That one reached somewhere deeper.

Isabella Brown had very little interest in doing anything other than spending her parents' enormous fortune.

She'd traveled around the world more times than I could count, collected designer handbags like normal people collected grocery receipts, and had developed a rather impressive reputation for enjoying men without ever keeping one.

No man had managed to tame Isabella Brown.

According to Isabella, that was because she wasn't a fucking horse and didn't require taming.

Fair enough.

“Darling.” William touched my back. “I'll let you catch up with Bella. I need to speak with Judge Franklin and his wife.”

Of course he did.

I gave him a small nod. “Go.”

He kissed my temple before walking away.

I watched him cross the room.

It took less than ten seconds for someone to stop him.

Then another person shook his hand.

Then another.

William never wasted an opportunity when it came to his political career.

Not a handshake.

Not an introduction.

Not a photograph.

Not even his wife's exhibition.

And as I watched my husband disappear into a room filled with some of the richest and most influential people in New York, Isabella slipped a champagne glass into my hand.

“Your husband has been here for thirty seconds,” she muttered, “and he's already campaigning.”

I took the glass.

“He's always campaigning.” Bella mumbled as she looked at me.

For some reason, the way she said it next made me look at her twice.

“I know.”

“You look like a ridiculously sexy princess.”

I turned toward the familiar voice.

“Malcolm.”

My brother stood a few feet away, looking insufferably pleased with himself.

His eyes traveled over my gown before he gave an approving nod.

“I mean, the only thing you're missing is a tiara, Mia.”

“How remarkably subtle of you, brother.”

“I've never claimed subtlety as one of my virtues,” my incorrigible brother muttered, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Or modesty, apparently.”

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

He kissed my cheek.

“Seriously, Mia. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

That was considerably better.

Then Malcolm's attention shifted over my shoulder.

His face immediately brightened.

“Bella!”

Oh, no.

“It's been too long.”

Bella turned around.

“Oh, shut it. Weren't you the one accompanying me to half the boutiques in France?”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “No. I was conducting independent research.”

I stared at him. “Research?”

“I was trying to find my next victim.”

“Victim?” I repeated.

Bella nearly choked on her wine.

“The next man in his bed.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

Of course.

There were certain things about my younger brother's personal life that I had absolutely no desire to investigate.

His choice of partners ranked very high on that list.

A server passed beside us carrying a tray of champagne, and I gracefully relieved him of one glass.

“Fascinating as this conversation promises to become, I have no interest whatsoever in learning the details of Malcolm's latest European conquests.”

Malcolm looked offended.

“You used to be fun.”

“I still am. I simply have standards regarding the information I permit into my brain.”

Bella laughed.

“I'll find you both later.”

With that, I turned and went searching for my husband before William managed to transform my exhibition into an unofficial campaign fundraiser.

It wouldn't have surprised me. The man could probably secure a political endorsement at a funeral.

I found him exactly where I expected to.

Surrounded.

“Hello, darling.”

William greeted me with one of his signature smiles.

That smile.

Even after all these years, it still had an effect on me.

It was the same one that had captured my attention when we first met—the effortless, devastatingly charming smile that made you feel as though you were the only person in the room who mattered.

“Having fun?” I asked.

“I'm enjoying myself.”

“I'm glad.”

William slipped an arm around my waist.

“You've put together a remarkable evening.”

“I'd love to take credit for all of it, but Hannah would probably have me assassinated.”

One of the gentlemen standing with us laughed.

“You two are one hell of a power couple,” Mr. Fitzgerald said.

He was one of the wealthiest men attending tonight, a serious collector and the kind of person whose presence at an exhibition never went unnoticed.

I smiled graciously.

“That's very kind of you to say.”

William gave my waist a subtle squeeze.

I glanced at him.

I had married quite the man, after all.

The small circle surrounding us continued discussing William's reelection campaign, and I listened politely as they praised his first term.

But somewhere between conversations about approval ratings and economic policy, my mind wandered backward.

Six years.

Had it really been six years since we first met?

I'd met William at my first major solo exhibition at one of Manhattan's most prestigious galleries.

At the time, my name had begun circulating seriously within the art world, but I hadn't yet become Mia Sterling.

Not the Mia Sterling whose paintings attracted international collectors.

Not the woman whose exhibitions required security.

Not the artist whose name alone could alter the bidding on a canvas.

I had simply been Mia.

Talented.

Ambitious.

Terrified.

And determined not to let anyone know about that last part.

My mother had spread word of the exhibition through her intimate social circle. And one of those calls had reached William's mother.

She brought her son.

I remembered noticing him almost immediately.

He had possessed the same confidence then that he carried now.

William had been raised around politics, influence, and wealth. He understood rooms like that instinctively. But what interested me was that he hadn't approached me by talking about himself.

He'd asked about my work.

Not what it cost.

Not whether it was selling.

Not whether I'd painted anyone famous.

He wanted to know why I'd painted it.

That conversation led to dinner several days later.

Dinner became a date.

Then another.

And another.

Until eventually, we announced our engagement.

William began campaigning for Governor shortly after our wedding.

I'd watched him transform from an ambitious politician with an impressive surname into a candidate people genuinely believed in.

And when election night arrived, he didn't simply win.

He won decisively.

Nearly fourteen points separated him from his opponent.

The Peterson family had political influence, certainly.

But William had earned his victory.

I was proud of him.

And judging by the crowd currently surrounding my husband, New York hadn't grown tired of him yet.

“Excuse me.”

A familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.

Hannah appeared beside me.

Her expression was far too pleased.

I knew that face.

“What happened?”

“Another one sold.”

My eyebrows lifted.

“The third?”

“The third.”

“For?”

Hannah's smile widened.

I smiled back.

Now that was the kind of conversation I enjoyed.

One thing I could say about tonight's exhibition was that whoever had selected the wine and charcuterie deserved a substantial raise.

The presentation was impeccable.

The wine was exceptional.

And the cheeses had clearly been selected by someone who understood that a charcuterie board should be curated with nearly as much consideration as the art hanging on the walls.

By the time my third painting sold, however, I had barely finished my second glass of champagne.

Bella, on the other hand, appeared to have consumed more wine than I normally drank in an entire month.

I watched her from across the gallery.

She was laughing much too loudly at something Malcolm had whispered into her ear.

I narrowed my eyes.

That combination was dangerous.

William followed my gaze.

“Should we be concerned?”

“Deeply.”

“About which one?”

“Both.”

He chuckled.

I took a delicate sip of champagne.

“My brother is promiscuous, my best friend is intoxicated, and they've apparently formed an alliance.”

William considered that.

“Should I call security?”

“Not yet.”

“Yet?”

I looked at him over the rim of my glass.

“Give them another twenty minutes.”

As the evening progressed, the crowd gradually began to thin.

William eventually appeared beside me, looking considerably more sober than my brother.

That wasn't saying much.

“Darling,” he said, slipping one hand around my waist, “I think it's best if I take your brother home.”

I looked across the gallery.

Malcolm was attempting to have what appeared to be a very serious conversation with one of the sculptures.

Wonderful.

“I think I'll need to take Bella back to her penthouse,” I said with a quiet laugh. “If it's all right with you, I might stay there tonight and come home in the morning.”

William leaned down and kissed me softly.

“I'll have breakfast ready for us.”

I smiled.

“Aww. Thank you, honey.”

Before he pulled away, his arm tightened around my waist.

“And congratulations, Mia.”

There was something different in his expression now.

Not Governor Peterson.

Not the politician who had spent half the evening shaking hands and charming people who could potentially write very large campaign checks.

My husband.

“You did extraordinarily well tonight.”

My smile deepened.

“Thank you.”

And I had.

More than one million dollars.

I let that number settle in my mind for a moment.

Three of my paintings had sold for a combined total exceeding one million dollars.

It wasn't the money itself that affected me.

I'd been fortunate enough to grow up without ever wondering whether there would be enough of it. And at this point in my career, selling a painting for six figures wasn't unprecedented.

But there was something profoundly satisfying about knowing that someone had stood in front of something I'd created—something that had once existed nowhere except inside my imagination—and decided it was worth possessing at almost any price.

That feeling never became ordinary.

Nor did I want it to.

Tonight hadn't belonged solely to me, either.

Several other artists had participated in the exhibition, and they'd done remarkably well.

I may have been the marquee name that attracted much of the press, collectors, and frankly, an absurd number of cameras, but their work had shone independently of mine.

And it deserved to.

Art wasn't diminished simply because another artist commanded a higher price.

Talent didn't work that way.

I knew precisely what my name was worth in this industry.

I had worked very hard to make it worth something. But I also knew exceptional work when I saw it.

And there had been plenty of it in that gallery tonight.

William studied my face.

“You're doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“Trying to pretend you're not enormously pleased with yourself.”

I lifted my champagne glass.

“I have absolutely no intention of pretending that.”

He laughed. “Did I tell you how much I love your confidence?”

I smiled.

“I worked very hard for tonight, William. I'm allowed to enjoy it.”

“You should.”

His thumb brushed gently along my waist.

“I'm proud of you.”

That softened something inside me far more than the final sales figure had.

I leaned forward and kissed him.

“Thank you.”

From somewhere behind us came an enormous crash.

We both froze.

I slowly closed my eyes.

“Please tell me that wasn't my intoxicated brother.”

William glanced over my shoulder.

His lips pressed together.

“Well?”

He cleared his throat.

“Your brother appears to be apologizing to a floral arrangement.”

I sighed.

“Of course he is.”

“And Bella is applauding.”

I finished the last sip of my champagne.

“Take Malcolm home.”

William laughed.

“Gladly.”

“I'll deal with Isabella.”

“Godspeed, Mrs. Peterson.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Get my brother out of here, Governor.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I stayed behind for another hour or so.

I wasn't really keeping track of the time, but as the featured artist of the evening, I couldn't exactly disappear while the gallery was still full.

There were collectors to thank, photographs to take, conversations to finish, and enough compliments to inflate my ego for at least the next six months.

Eventually, though, the crowd thinned.

And I was exhausted.

Bella was considerably worse.

“Come on, Bella. I'll take you home.”

She looked at me as if I'd just spoken another language.

“Home?”

“Yes. Your penthouse.”

Her expression immediately changed.

“No.”

I stopped.

“No?”

“My mother is there again.” She sighed. “She says she's leaving my father for real this time.”

Oh, God.

That again.

“What did he do this time?” I asked. “Sleep with someone else?”

Bella coughed.

“Same woman.”

I stared at her.

“The same woman?”

She nodded.

“Well, that certainly complicates matters.”

I didn't need any further explanation.

“Okay. Let's go to my house.”

I was fairly certain her parents' disastrous marriage was one of the reasons my best friend spent so much time traveling.

Barcelona.

Paris.

Monaco.

Milan.

Anywhere but home.

Her father had cheated on her mother more times than I could count, and every scandal seemed to follow the same exhausting cycle.

Her mother threatened divorce.

Her father begged forgiveness.

Lawyers became involved.

Then expensive jewelry mysteriously appeared.

They reconciled.

And several months later, we were right back where we'd started.

I hated watching Bella get dragged into the middle of it.

One of the valet attendants brought her car around.

“Good night, ladies.”

“Good night.”

I pulled some cash from my wallet and tipped him before helping Isabella into the passenger seat.

“Okay. Let's go home.”

Apparently, she'd stopped listening.

Her eyes were already closing.

I shook my head. “Wonderful company.”

She mumbled something completely unintelligible.

I laughed and started the car.

One of the few advantages of driving through New York that late at night was the traffic. It wasn't nearly as brutal as it was during the day. And I lived less than thirty minutes from the gallery, so the drive wasn't particularly long.

Bella slept for most of it.

I spent the time replaying the evening in my head.

The paintings.

The collectors.

The bids.

William telling me he was proud of me.

More than a million dollars in sales.

It had been an extraordinary night.

By the time I pulled into our driveway, I was exhausted but happy.

Really happy.

I had no idea how quickly that was about to change.

The house was dark when we arrived.

William must've already gone to sleep.

I wasn't surprised. He'd spent the entire day at the office and had barely made it home with enough time to shower and change before the exhibition.

I quietly opened the door while keeping one arm around Isabella's shoulders.

Our five-bedroom home was only minutes outside the most congested parts of the city and its major roads, but at night, it felt remarkably peaceful.

Tonight, it was completely silent.

“Shhh,” I whispered.

Bella looked at me.

“I don't want to wake William.”

She dramatically covered her mouth with both hands.

I nearly laughed.

“I'll take you upstairs, and then I'll get you some aspirin and water.”

She winked.

Well.

I'd told her to keep quiet.

Apparently, she had decided that meant she was no longer permitted to speak.

I helped her upstairs.

Slowly.

Excruciatingly slowly.

We reached the second floor, and I was preparing to take her toward one of the guest bedrooms when something on the floor caught my attention.

A jacket.

I stopped.

William's jacket.

What on earth was it doing here?

I stared at it for a moment.

That was strange.

William wasn't careless with his clothes.

Especially not his expensive suits.

Maybe Malcolm had gotten sick on the way home. That would explain why William had rushed upstairs.

I took another couple of steps.

Then stopped again.

A shoe was lying near our bedroom door.

I frowned.

Not William's.

My eyes remained on it.

Something inside me shifted.

A tiny sensation.

Instinct, perhaps.

Something wasn't right.

The bedroom light was still on.

I could see the thin line of illumination beneath the door.

Then I heard something.

I froze.

A noise.

Muffled.

I couldn't immediately make out what it was.

Then it came again.

A moan.

My heart slammed against my chest.

No.

I stood completely still.

Bella bumped into my shoulder.

“What—”

I immediately lifted one hand.

She stopped talking.

Another sound came from behind the door.

Definitely a moan.

My pulse began pounding in my ears.

What on earth was going on?

Maybe Malcolm had brought someone back with him.

But why would William allow him to use our bedroom?

No.

That didn't make sense.

Another moan.

Louder this time.

And suddenly—

I recognized the voice.

Malcolm.

My stomach dropped.

Bella's drunken expression disappeared.

She looked at me.

Neither of us spoke.

Then another voice came from behind the door.

A man's voice.

Familiar.

Painfully familiar.

My entire body went cold.

William.

No.

My brain rejected it immediately.

No.

There had to be an explanation.

Some bizarre, ridiculous explanation that would make perfect sense once I opened that door.

My hands began trembling.

I released Bella.

She was staring at me with an expression I couldn't decipher.

Shock.

Confusion.

Maybe pity.

I couldn't breathe properly anymore.

The air seemed to stop somewhere inside my throat.

Another sound.

Malcolm.

Then William.

My husband.

My brother.

No.

With trembling legs and shallow breaths, my bare feet carried me toward the door.

I was terrified to open it.

Terrified of what I already knew was waiting on the other side.

My vision blurred for a second, and I reached for the wall to steady myself.

I was going to pass out.

I could feel it.

But I had to know.

I needed to be wrong.

God, please let me be wrong.

My trembling hand wrapped around the handle.

And I pushed the door open.

I stopped.

Everything inside me stopped.

William.

Malcolm.

Naked.

On my bed.

Together.

For several seconds, my mind simply refused to process the scene in front of me.

My husband.

My brother.

Their clothes scattered across the floor.

Malcolm's body pinned under my husband. Tangled together on the bed I had shared for nearly five years.

The same bed where he'd held me.

Kissed me.

Made promises to me.

I couldn't move.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?” Bella's scream exploded behind me.

William jerked around.

His face went pale the instant he saw me standing in the doorway.

“Mia—”

He shoved himself away from Malcolm and stumbled out of bed, frantically searching for something to cover himself with.

Malcolm immediately pulled the sheets around his naked body.

His eyes met mine.

“Mia...”

I couldn't answer.

William was saying something.

Malcolm was saying something.

Bella was still shouting behind me.

But their voices had become distant.

Muffled.

Almost as though I were underwater.

My heart hammered painfully against my ribs.

I couldn't catch my breath.

I couldn't understand what I had just seen. 

And the worst part was that I'd become mute.

Completely, devastatingly mute.

No matter how desperately I tried, I couldn't force a single word past my lips.

My mouth was dry.

Painfully dry.

I needed water.

Air.

Something.

Anything.

The room tilted beneath my feet.

I reached for the doorframe, but even that didn't feel solid anymore.

My knees weakened.

My vision blurred around the edges.

“Mia?” William's voice reached me.

I couldn't answer him.

I couldn't even look at him.

My body had stopped cooperating with me.

I was going to collapse.

I knew it.

One second I was standing there, staring at the two people who had just shattered my entire world.

And the next—

I was about to plummet to the floor.

Bella jumped between us the moment William tried to reach for my hand. “Don't fucking touch her.”

I didn't wait to see what happened next.

I took advantage of my best friend shielding me from the disgusting man I'd called my husband and ran downstairs.

I don't know how my legs carried me.

By the time my mind caught up with my body, I was standing over the kitchen sink, drinking directly from the faucet and splashing cold water over my face.

I was breathing heavily.

Still, no words came.

“Mia—”

William.

I shook my head.

“Don't come near her!” Isabella shouted from behind him.

Something inside me finally broke loose.

“Was this the first time?”

Silence.

I'd always thought William and Malcolm had an unusually close relationship.

Suddenly, every memory felt contaminated.

“WAS THIS THE FIRST TIME?”

Nothing.

“How long?”

The tears finally came.

William stood there like stone.

“Answer the fucking question!” Bella demanded.

Before he could respond, she slapped him hard across the face.

Hard.

“Was this the first time?” I asked again.

William's eyes met mine.

Then, barely—

he shook his head.

No.

My stomach turned.

Bella grabbed the first thing within reach—a rolling pin.

“I'm going to kill that fucker.”

She stormed toward the stairs.

William looked at me.

I said nothing.

Then he ran after her.

After the woman threatening my brother.

His lover.

His mistress?

What was I supposed to call Malcolm now?

I didn't stay to find out.

While all three of them were occupied upstairs, I ran for the garage.

I needed out.

Immediately.

My eyes landed on my car, but I stopped.

No.

Too easy to track.

Then I saw the brown tarp in the corner.

My old Mustang. I'd kept it all these years like a trophy.

I yanked the cover away, climbed inside, and opened the glove compartment.

The spare key was still there.

My hands shook as I turned it.

The engine roared to life.

So did something inside me.

Before anyone could realize what I was doing, I threw the car into gear and hit the gas.

I pulled out of the garage and disappeared into the night.

I had no destination.

No plan.

I was simply gone. 

My mind was too fogged with shock for rational thinking.

I knew only one thing.

I needed to get as far away from William Peterson as I possibly could.