LOGIN[Alice's POV]The days that followed were, against all reasonable expectations, happy.It was not the wild, electric happiness of fairy tales — not the fireworks and grand gestures and soaring orchestral scores that the movies promised. But something quieter. Days made of small, ordinary moments that accumulated like snowfall, each one insignificant on its own but collectively transforming my landscape beyond recognition.My mornings began with Adam.He would wake before I did. It was a habit from his residency years, he said, when the body learned to function on four hours of sleep and an internal alarm clock that no amount of retirement from his medical years could disable. And by the time I shuffled into the kitchen, the kettle would be boiling. There would be toast on the counter and the ride-share app would be open on his phone, showing the morning surge pricing in District One."Good morning," he always said, and the way he said it — with that quiet, unguarded warmth, as if my e
[David’s POV]I’m driving. Away from this tangle that has snared me. Not to my corporate head office or my penthouse apartment. Not to any place where I’m supposed to be.Instead, I’m heading to Alice’s villa.Because Camilla was crying.The real kind of tears. The genuine, trembling, chest- heaving sobs of a five-year-old child who wants her mom and doesn’t understand the situation.“I want my mommy. Why can’t I see my mom? Is mom okay? Why isn’t mom here?”Her anguish cut deep, and I had to comfort her. I hugged her. I rocked her. I promised that her mother was fine, she was just resting, and she would see her mother soon.My promise tasted bitter because I didn’t have the right to use the word ‘soon.’ I had no right to decide when Alice would see her daughter. I no longer had the right to decide anything in Alice’s life. She wasn’t my wife anymore. She was, strictly speaking, my ex-wife — a woman who had looked me in the eye and chosen her independence.So, I drove Camilla to the v
[David's POV]I didn’t propose to Lily.This was something that no one seemed willing to understand. The accepted narrative was constructed too quickly, too efficiently, and by the time I realized what had happened, it was already the official version: David Newcombe, crushed by his ex-wife’s betrayal, finds solace in the arms of her step-sister, and proposes marriage the morning after the press conference.Melodramatic. Romantic. In the tabloids, the social pages, and the gossip channels that have been following the stories since the hotel photo leak, the story was simply perfect.And yet, none of it was true.That press conference — the one where Lily stood beside me in her elegant white dress, her hand on my arm, her eyes shining with what I thought were tears — was her idea. Her strategy. She said we had to control the narrative, to get ahead of Alice’s accusations before they took hold.“We need to show a united front, David. We need them to see us together, and recognize that I’
[Marie's POV]"Unaffected. It falls below the threshold of professional influence. Neither your father nor Elias Ballard considered it worth the effort to block a driver position.""Good. Let him keep it." I leaned back in my chair; my eyes still locked on my reflection. "A man who is exhausted and impoverished is a man who will eventually come home. Let him taste the life he's chosen. Let him feel the cold. Let him understand, in his bones, what it means to give up everything for a woman who —"I stopped. The sentence was incomplete, and I knew why. Because the ending I wanted to say — “who doesn't love him back” — was no longer something I could say with certainty. Not after the hospital. Not after the way Alice had sat at his bedside. Not after the way his hand had found hers and held on, as if letting go would mean drowning.It doesn't matter, I told myself. Love isn't enough. Love doesn't pay the bills. Love doesn't heal shattered hands. Love doesn't give a man back his name or h
[Marie's POV]The call came at precisely two-fifteen.I was in the bridal suite of the Baur au Lac. The presidential suite, naturally, the one with the view of the lake and the Alps, and the private terrace where the wedding photographs will be taken in exactly eighteen days. The suite was booked six months ago. Long before Adam jumped into a river, long before his coma, and long before the marriage certificate had been signed in a civil ceremony that lasted eleven minutes and involved exactly zero words of love.I was sitting at the vanity when the phone rang. A white silk robe was draped over my shoulders; my hair was pinned in loose curls for the fitting scheduled for three o'clock. The dress — the final dress, the one that had been designed by a team in Paris and adjusted three times since the engagement — was hanging on the back of the door with the cathedral-length veil attached to its hanger.I picked up the phone on the second ring."Report,” I said tersely.The voice on the o
[Alice’s POV]David stared at me. His jaw was working — the muscle flexing and releasing, flexing and releasing, the physical manifestation of a man trying to process something his mind was refusing to accept."You're choosing him," David said. It wasn't a question. It was a diagnosis. The way a doctor delivers a terminal prognosis. Not with malice, but with the flat, professional resignation of someone who has run out of treatment options."Yes," I said. "I'm choosing Adam. Not because he's perfect. Not because he's wealthy or powerful or any of the things that used to matter to people like us. I'm choosing him because he's here for me. Because he jumped into a river for me. Because he woke up from a coma and the first thing he did was hold my hand. Because he's willing to drive strangers around Zurich if it means he can be in the same room as me and my daughter and this baby."I glanced over at Adam. He was standing very still, his face a landscape of emotion that I was only beginni
[Alice's POV]“I won’t sign this.” I firmly pushed the document back.David frowned. “What did you say?” It was clearly not the reaction he expected.“You heard me. I won’t admit to something I haven’t done.” I looked at him and stated each word clearly. “I won’t sign this confession. Even if it’s
[David's POV]The night before the trial began, I sat in my study with the prosecution statement submitted by my lawyers, spread out in front of me. My desk lamp illuminated the document, and the damning lines within spelled out all the lines of evidence that prove how Alice ‘intentionally harmed’
[Alice’s POV]I heard more footsteps coming down the corridor, getting closer.This time there were two people, a man and a woman, dressed in civilian suits but with a businesslike seriousness in their gait and expression. They walked straight over to us.“Are you Mrs. Alice Newcombe?” The policewo
[Alice’s POV]The walls of the interrogation room are a dull gray-green color that absorbs all the heat from the room. The room contained a metal table, some plastic chairs, and overhead incandescent tubes that hum and cast a glaring light on the table surface. I sat in a chair at the table with ha







