Mag-log inMy phone rang.A call.Hazel’s name filled the screen, and for a second I just stared at it like the thing had suddenly turned into a living animal in my hand.Hazel didn’t call if she could still ruin someone’s life over text. Hazel was a lawyer, which meant she believed in written evidence, digital trails, and sentences that could be reused in court. If she was calling, something had crossed the line past comfortable.I answered. “Haze?”There was the sound of a car on the other end. Faint. Tires on wet pavement, or maybe just New York asphalt at night, which always sounded like tired people dragging suitcases behind them. Then Hazel’s breath, very short.“Jas,” she said.I immediately stood up from the edge of the bed.The black envelope slipped from my lap and landed softly on the floor, far too polite for something that had just tried to dismantle five years of my life. Several pages were still spread across the sheets, old notary stamps facing the bedroom light like ancient eyes
I started with the desk.First drawer: pens, business cards, a spare watch, chargers, meeting documents that were useless to me because they were full of company numbers and the language of people who enjoyed spreadsheets.The second drawer was locked.I stared at it.“Too bad,” I said, then left it alone. I wasn’t trying to become an amateur thief. I had standards. Low ones, but they existed.I checked the stack of files on the credenza. There were Fondation contracts, security notes, a folder marked Monaco Gala, several files with lawyers’ names on them. No Kelsey. No second marriage. No letter with the header, Congratulations, you’re still tied to a problematic man.The next bookshelf held books on international law, finance, a few old Italian novels that looked like they’d never been opened, and rows of leather archives with labels far too neat to be innocent.I moved slowly, not because I was afraid of getting caught.Fine. A little because I was afraid of getting caught.But mos
I stared at Sebastian.He stared back, way too calm for a man who had just dropped a verbal explosive on the kitchen island. His phone was still between us. The pasta had gone cold. The basil casualty of war was still stuck to the cutting board. From the hallway, the penthouse sounded far too quiet.“What theory?” I asked.He didn’t answer, and he was extremely calm about not answering.His eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway, where Salma had just taken Poppy for her nap, then came back to me.I knew that look.I hated that I knew that look.It was Sebastian Romano’s face when he was deciding which information he thought I deserved now and which part he was going to keep tucked behind that broad chest and his luxury-grade control issues.“Sebastian.” I said his name low.“Jas.”“No. Don’t Jas me. I asked you a question. What theory?”Sebastian picked up his phone from the counter. This time I let him, not because I’d suddenly become a patient woman, but because I wanted to see if
Salma won the nap war thirteen minutes later.Poppy initially claimed she wasn’t sleepy because “my eyes still have a meeting,” then five seconds later she yawned so wide Bunny could’ve filed a formal report for loss of dignity. She still tried to climb down from the stool with her little fork in hand, resisting with her entire chubby body when Salma told her it was time for a nap.“I can’t nap,” she said, hugging Bunny to her chest. “I’m a doctor.”“Doctors sleep too,” Salma said.“Doctors on TV don’t.”“Doctors on TV get paid to suffer.”Poppy considered that very seriously. Her half-dry bangs had fallen over her forehead again, one strand stuck to her flushed cheek. “I haven’t been paid.”“Exactly,” I said. “Sleep.”Poppy turned to Sebastian. “Daddy.”Sebastian looked at her with an unfairly calm expression. “Nap,” he said.Poppy blinked, betrayed to the marrow. “You’re on Team Nap too?”“I’m on Team Lunch, Nap, and Don’t Let Your Mother Burn Down the Kitchen.”I pointed my fork at
“I don’t like it when you ask with that face,” I said.“What face?”“The face that makes sleep-deprived women consider bad decisions.”His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth. “If you want a bad decision,” he said quietly, “I can give you more enjoyable options than meeting Adrian alone.”A little heat climbed up my neck.Completely inappropriate.Completely useless.Completely us.I grabbed the nearest bowl and set it down hard on the counter, not enough to break it, just enough to drag the mood back onto a less sexual track. “You’re being accused of having a pregnant wife and a conspirator father. Don’t flirt with me over pasta.”“I’m not flirting.”“You’re breathing with intent.”He smiled.“Mommy! Salma says my bangs have to be dried, but my bangs say no consent!”I closed my eyes for a second. “God gave me a child as a homicide deterrent.”Sebastian looked toward the hallway. “She still hasn’t eaten.”“Don’t use nutrition to avoid interrogation.”“I’m not avoiding it.”“Yet.”Salma
I stared at the water in the pot.Bubbles broke across the surface one by one. Too fast. Too many.You’re more ready to believe her than me.It wasn’t fair.Or maybe it was completely fair, and that was the part that made it feel like a slap. Because yeah...When Kelsey said wife, my brain didn’t laugh. It took the word, cleaned it off, then matched it against an old wound.When Kelsey said three months, I counted Sebastian being in Monaco for five and still left room for the possibility that he was lying.When Kelsey said Sebastian’s father, foundation, board, old system, I didn’t throw any of it in the trash. I brought all of it home like evidence.Not because I trusted Kelsey.But because five years ago, Kelsey smiled at a camera with my bracelet on her wrist, and the world gave me proof that looked more honest than my own husband.I grabbed the colander. “Do you want the honest answer or the answer that makes lunch feel less like a second divorce hearing?”“Honest.”“Of course.” I







