CHAPTER ONE

I'd forgotten my phone.

Again.

If Marcus sees me coming back home without the groceries I was supposed to buy, he will definitely give me one of his ‘you are such a disappointment’ looks that I am starting to get used to anyways.

The house was silent when I slipped through the front door. He'd mentioned conference calls this afternoon, something about Singapore, so there is a chance that you would be in his office right now on a call, so I kicked off my heels and started upstairs barefoot, the marble cold against my soles.

Halfway up, I heard it.

A rhythmic, unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin, followed by breathless gasps.

My hand froze on the banister. For one stupid second, I tried to convince myself it was the television, maybe the neighbor's music bleeding through the walls. 

But I knew...God, I knew what that sound was.

I kept climbing.

The bedroom door stood half-open. Those sounds were louder now, accompanied by a woman's breathy giggle.

I pushed it wide and froze at the sight that greeted me.

Marcus was naked, driving into a woman bent over our bed. Her face was buried in my pillows—the ones I'd fluffed this morning. The wedding gift sheets from his mother lay tangled on the floor like discarded trash.

My purse slipped from my fingers and hit the hardwood with a muted thud.

Marcus turned his head. Looked right at me. His body didn't stop moving. 

Hell, he didn't even have the decency to stop or at least look guilty or ashamed that I had just caught him screwing a woman in our matrimonial bed.

Instead, his face pinched with annoyance.

"Jesus Christ, Evelyn." He snapped, "Either close the door and leave, or strip down and join us. But stop hovering there like a pathetic ghost."

The girl—who I now recognized as Mara, his twenty-one-year-old secretary, when she lifted her head—smiled at me. "Sorry, Mrs. Hart. I told him we should've locked the door."

My hands were shaking. I mumbled something that might've been an apology and yanked the door shut, stumbling backward. My shoulder slammed into the wall hard enough to send our wedding photo crashing to the floor. Glass spiderwebbed across Marcus's smiling face.

I didn't pick it up.

My legs carried me downstairs, into the kitchen, anywhere but there. By the time I gripped the marble island, I couldn't breathe right. Each inhale scraped.

Third time. It was the third time he'd brought someone into our bed, our home, the space where I was supposed to feel safe.

Not the third time he'd cheated—I'd lost count of Marcus's women somewhere around year two. And I’ve learned to get used to it. But bringing them into our home … ON OUR BED? It was a special kind of insult that always hit differently.

I should've seen it coming with Mara. The moment I'd walked into his office six months ago and saw her poured into that pencil skirt, all legs and breathy voice—I'd known where iy would end.

 The same way you know it's going to rain when old scars start to ache.

My shoulder throbbed. The scar from the accident—healed for ten years but never forgotten. It always hurt when I was stressed.

I could still feel the heat of those flames. Still smell burning metal and leather. I still hear my father screaming my name before the car exploded with him trapped inside.

I was fourteen. Trapped in the wreckage on that rain-slicked highway, blood running into my eyes, unable to move while fire crept closer.

Then strong arms had lifted me. A teenage boy, maybe seventeen, his face a blur through my tears and the rain. He'd pulled me from that car seconds before it went up.

"Stay with me, little storm," he whispered against my ear as he ran. "Just stay with me."

I never saw his face. He'd set me down by the roadside, made sure I was breathing, then disappeared into the night before the ambulances arrived. Like he'd never existed at all.

Except for those words. Little storm.

That accident took my father and our family's fortune in one night. Left my mother broken. Left me with scars and hospital bills and the knowledge that someone had saved me while my father burned.

Sometimes I wished I'd been the one caught in those flames. Perhaps then my father would still be alive, and my mother would still be healthy and well, and I wouldn't have to live a life of guilt.

Five years later, at nineteen, with my mother dying of stage 4 cancer and medical bills drowning us both, I'd married Marcus Hart. Forty-two years old, charming, ruthless, and rich enough to save her life. In exchange, I became his perfect wife. Beautiful. Silent. Obedient.

Five years of swallowing my pride. Five years of playing the role while Marcus collected mistresses like trophies.

You'd think I'd be used to it by now.

I grabbed a dish towel and pressed it hard against my eyes until I saw stars.

Stop crying. Stop being weak.

But what was I supposed to do? Leave? With what money? What life?

My mother was alive because of Marcus Hart. Because I'd signed myself away to a man twenty-three years older who'd promised to save her in exchange for a pretty young wife at business dinners.

Which meant I owed him everything. My silence. My obedience. My pain.

I took a shaky breath and opened the refrigerator. Pulled out eggs, prosciutto, and the eighteen-dollar-a-pound butter. My hands moved automatically. Crack eggs. Whisk. Chop chives.

I was halfway done when I heard them coming down the stairs.

The knife slipped, but I caught it, but my whole body had gone rigid.

Marcus walked in bare-chested, pants unbuttoned. Mara followed in one of his dress shirts—the blue Hermès I'd picked up from the cleaners three days ago. It fell to mid-thigh. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

She was still smiling.

Marcus carried a manila envelope. He slammed it on the island hard enough to make me flinch.

"We need to talk."

I set down the knife. "I'm making breakfast, and I'm almost done, which means that your guest can stay and have some…"

"Mara's not a guest anymore." Marcus said, "As of an hour ago when she said yes. I proposed to Mara this morning. We're getting married in three weeks. I've already booked the Plaza."

The whisk clattered into the sink.

"What?"

"You heard me. Mara and I are getting married. I've already contacted my lawyers." He pulled her against him, hand splayed across her flat stomach. "It's time to make this official."

"Marcus, this has to be—" My voice broke. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" He snapped. "I've never been more serious in my life."

"We're married. You and I. We’ve been married for five years…"

"So what?" His face twisted with disgust. "Five years, and what have you contributed to my life? To this marriage? You're not educated. You didn't finish college. You know nothing about business. You can't hold a conversation with my colleagues without embarrassing yourself."

"That's not…"

"You can't even do the one thing any woman is capable of doing." His eyes dropped to my stomach. "You can't give me an heir. Can't get pregnant after two rounds of IVF that cost me over two hundred thousand dollars. The doctors said you have a three percent chance of conceiving naturally. Three percent, Evelyn. You're barren."

Each word hit like a physical blow.

"You're a useless freeloader I've supported out of pity for five years." He pulled Mara tighter. "But look at her. Young, beautiful, and intelligent. She has an MBA from Wharton. She understands my business. She's exactly the type of woman who should be by my side."

"I've stayed by your side through everything—" Tears burned down my face. "I've taken care of this house, I've been faithful—"

"Useless." He cut me off. "Everything you just listed proves how useless you've been. That's the bare minimum. You want a medal for not cheating? For doing laundry? That's pathetic."

"I—" The word came out as a sob.

"And most importantly?" His smile widened. "Mara's already pregnant. Twelve weeks along. Twins. A boy and a girl. I've already seen the ultrasound. Everything you couldn't give me in five years, she managed in two months."

The world stopped spinning.

"No."

Mara's hand drifted to her stomach, her grin deepening. "Dr. Richardson says they're developing perfectly. They’ve got very strong heartbeats, you know? Marcus is going to be such an amazing father."

"I want a divorce." Marcus pushed the envelope toward me. "Right now. The papers are ready. You'll get ten billion dollars cash—far more than you deserve. Plus the Silverlake Heights mansion. Two years' rent paid. But after you sign, I don't want to see you again. Ever. Not at company events, not calling my office, not anywhere near my life. Are we clear?"