Chapter 2

I'm smiling so hard my cheeks ache, but Hiroshi Nakamura hasn't looked at me once in forty-five minutes.

"The quarterly projections show a fifteen percent uptick across all sectors," Alexander says, cutting into his wagyu like he's dissecting a business plan. "With your distribution network in Southeast Asia, we're looking at exponential growth."

The private dining room at Le Bernardin costs more per night than most people make in a month. Soft lighting, impeccable service, and the kind of quiet luxury that screams money without saying a word.

Perfect for the kind of deal that adds zeros to bank accounts.

Perfect for reducing me to expensive window dressing.

My phone buzzes silently in my clutch. I ignore it, focusing on being the perfect wife Alexander expects.

"Impressive numbers," Nakamura replies in accented English, then switches to rapid Japanese with his assistant.

Another buzz. Then another.

"The cherry blossoms in Central Park are beautiful this time of year," I say when there's a lull in conversation, exactly the kind of light, pleasant comment Alexander coached me to make. "I imagine they remind you of home."

My phone won't stop buzzing.

Nakamura finally glances my way with polite interest. "Indeed. Though Tokyo's sakura season ended weeks ago."

"Of course." Heat creeps up my neck. "I meant the symbolism. New beginnings and all that."

"Sophia has an art history degree from Columbia," Alexander interjects smoothly, his hand finding mine on the table. To anyone watching, it looks affectionate. I can feel the warning in his grip. "She has an excellent eye for beauty and meaning."

Translation: shut up and look pretty.

My phone buzzes again, more insistently.

"Excuse me," I murmur, standing from the table. "Ladies' room."

Alexander nods absently, already deep in discussion about profit margins.

In the restaurant's marble bathroom, I finally check my messages.

Unknown number: That dress used to be your favorite in high school. Navy blue, like the one you wore on our first date.

My breath catches. I haven't thought about that dress…or that date…in years.

Another message: He doesn't deserve you. He never did.

Then: I'm watching you right now. You look beautiful, but so sad. When did you learn to smile like that…like it's a performance?

My hands start shaking. Someone is here, in this restaurant, watching me pretend to be the perfect wife while my marriage crumbles around .

Who is this?

Someone who knew you before you learned to be afraid of wanting more.

The bathroom door opens, and I quickly delete the conversation, shoving my phone into my clutch.

"Sophia?" It's Alexander, concern creasing his forehead. "You've been gone fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes? It felt like seconds.

"Sorry, just needed some air." I force my brightest smile. "How's it going with Nakamura?"

"Well." His eyes search my face with that analytical intensity that makes me feel exposed. "He asked about your consulting comment. I told him you were being modest about your charity work."

Right. Because God forbid I actually have thoughts or ambitions of my own.

"We're going to the club for drinks," Alexander continues, his hand finding my elbow in a grip that looks gentle but feels like a shackle. "I need you sharp, Sophia. This deal is worth three billion dollars."

Three billion dollars. And here I thought it was about building something meaningful.

But as we walk back to the dining room, my phone buzzes one final time.

I don't look at it. Can't look at it with Alexander watching my every move.

But I can feel the weight of those unseen messages, like a secret burning a hole in my purse.

Someone is watching me.

Someone who remembers who I used to be before I became Mrs. Alexander Kane.

And part of me…the part I've buried under years of careful control…wants to know what they remember.