CHAPTER 1

ANNA POV

“I brought the champagne,” I say into the empty marble foyer. 

Silence answers me. The heavy oak doors of the Voss estate echo as I snap them shut behind my heels, my fingers clutching the chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon. I cut my London PR trip short by twelve hours, taking an earlier flight across the Atlantic just to surprise Jack for our third anniversary. 

“Jack?” I call out again, stepping deeper into the ground floor. 

The main house is dead quiet. My father is away in Dubai on business, leaving the sprawling glass-and-stone compound largely deserted for the weekend. I kick off my heels by the threshold, my toes sinking into the plush Persian runner as I head toward the rear floor-to-ceiling glass doors. 

Then I hear it. 

A faint, muffled laugh carries across the central lawn. It isn't coming from the main house—it’s coming from the guest pool house near the edge of the gardens. 

I frown, setting my designer leather tote on the kitchen counter while keeping my grip on the champagne bottle. Jack said he’d be working late on the merger pitch at his apartment downtown. Why would he be here? 

I step out through the side garden entrance, the cool evening air biting at my bare arms. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls of the pool house glow like a lit lantern against the darkening sky. As I draw closer across the damp grass, the golden light inside cuts through the shadows, framing two silhouettes standing right near the edge of the water. 

I stop dead in my tracks. 

Through the clear glass, I see my boyfriend, Jack Morrison. He’s standing chest-to-chest with a woman, his posture loose, his hands resting on her waist. 

My breath hitches in my throat. I take two steps closer, praying my eyes are playing tricks on me in the dusk. 

They aren't. 

The woman turns her head into the pool light, her manicured hand gliding slowly up Jack’s chest, resting flat over his heart. Her dark hair falls in pristine waves over her shoulders. 

It’s Mary. My forty-five-year-old stepmother. 

Jack tilts his head down, resting his forehead directly against hers. The closeness isn't accidental. It isn't a casual, familial hug. It is intimate, heavy, and sickeningly comfortable. 

“Jack?” I whisper, but the word dies in my mouth. 

My fingers instantly go numb. The glass bottle of Dom Pérignon slips from my paralyzed grip and crashes hard against the stone flagstones at my feet. 

CRASH.

Green glass explodes across the walkway, foam spraying over my bare ankles. 

Inside the glass house, both figures freeze. 

Jack flinches, his head snapping toward the garden, his eyes widening in immediate, raw terror. He stumbles back a step, his fingers frantically reaching down to adjust the disheveled collar of his button-down shirt. 

Mary doesn't flinch. She doesn't pull away in shame. 

Instead, Mary slowly turns toward the shattered glass floor, her dark eyes locking directly onto mine through the windowpane. A slow, deliberate smile spreads across her lips—not guilty, not caught, but entirely knowing. She glides toward the sliding glass door, pushing it open with two fingers. 

“You’re home early, darling,” Mary says softly, her voice dripping with artificial warmth as her eyes scan my pale face. “We were just... discussing the merger.” 

Her smile never fades. 

A wave of nausea hits me so violently my knees buckle. I don't demand an explanation. I don't listen to Jack stuttering my name behind her. 

I turn around and run. 

I scramble over the sharp shards of glass, ignoring the sting on my feet as I Sprint blindly back toward the driveway. Tears blind my vision, blurring the manicured hedges into dark streaks of green. I throw myself into the driver’s seat of my car, slamming the door shut and shoving the keyless ignition button. 

The engine roars to life. I slam my foot onto the gas pedal, tearing out of the estate driveway. The heavy iron gates of the Voss estate are still slowly sliding open. 

My hands shake violently on the leather steering wheel. The world outside spins out of focus—Jack’s face, Mary’s hand on his chest, the smirk on her lips. 

I can't breathe.

I swing the wheel hard to force the car through the closing gap, but my tear-filled eyes misjudge the distance completely. The tires lose traction on the slick gravel outside the gate. 

The metallic screech of tires tearing against tarmac echoes through the night, followed immediately by the sickening sound of crumpling steel as the front bumper slams head-on into the oak tree outside the gates. 

The airbag deploys with a deafening bang, smashing hard into my chest and pinning me backward against the seat. Smoke curls up from the hood as the engine dies into a terrifying, silence-filled hum.