Chapter 1

That night, Spencer didn't come home.

His text said four words: Out for drinks. Don't wait.

Once upon a time, I would have replied: Come home soon.

I opened CaldwellTech's internal management system instead.

An account I had never used before.

In the corporate expense portal — under today's approvals — Spencer had booked the Presidential Suite at The Ritz-Carlton.

Three consecutive nights. Twelve thousand pounds a night.

Reason for claim: Client entertainment.

Approver: himself.

The next morning, I went to the office to discuss divorce.

As I stepped into the elevator, two women behind me were mid-conversation. They hadn't recognized me.

"Have you seen Spencer's new PA? Stunning. That figure, that skin — she practically glows."

"I know. No wonder he brings her to every function. Apparently he drives her home himself afterward."

One of them covered her mouth and laughed.

"I heard his wife's just a housewife. Doesn't do anything."

"Obviously. Word is she only got her position through Daddy's connections. Now Spencer's made it on his own — why would he keep an old wallflower around?"

"I'd go looking too. Successful men don't stay locked up at home."

They laughed together.

The elevator doors closed.

My spine stayed straight. My nails pressed into my palms.

Thirty-second floor, the executive suite.

The door was wide open.

Vivienne Cross was inside, one leg crossed over the other, sipping coffee in a low-cut cardigan as if she owned the place. On the table in front of her: two matching mugs. One printed with "S," one with "V."

His-and-hers.

I scanned Spencer's desk.

The wedding portrait from our first anniversary — the one I'd framed and placed there myself — had been turned face-down. A thin layer of dust had settled on the back.

In its place: a fresh bunch of white roses. Petals still wet.

Vivienne watched me walk in. She straightened up slowly, leaning against the armrest of the sofa with the casual ease of a woman who believed she belonged here.

"Mrs. Caldwell. What a surprise."

"Spencer's in a meeting. Would you like to wait?" She gestured toward the hard-backed chairs reserved for visitors.

Like she was the one offering the seat.

I walked to the coffee table.

Vivienne lifted her wrist — a Cartier bracelet caught the light — and glanced at it absently.

"You're dressed quite simply today, Mrs. Caldwell. I suppose when you're home all the time, there's not much reason to dress up. Not like me — Spencer insisted on taking me shopping last week. Said I looked too stiff in work clothes. Bought me several pieces. This cardigan was over two thousand. I told him it was too much, but he'd already put the card through." She let the pause breathe.

"He said as long as it looked good on me, he didn't care what it cost."

I looked at her.

"Your name is Vivienne Cross?"

Her chin lifted. "That's right."

"Two thousand pounds," I said. "And this is what it looks like?"

"You've turned couture into a charity shop find. Has Spencer actually told you that?"

Her expression shifted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. He paid two thousand pounds for his own entertainment, and you actually thought that made you special?" I kept my voice level. "You're a prop. You know that, right?"

Vivienne's jaw tightened. "Mrs. Caldwell, I understand you're upset. But Spencer's net worth is in the hundreds of millions now. He doesn't need your family's backing anymore—"

"He told me himself he can't breathe at home. He said with me, he finally feels free."

"He said you don't understand him. That you're like a piece of furniture — no warmth, no feeling."

I looked at her carefully made-up face.

"A piece of furniture," I repeated.

"This particular piece of furniture built a startup engineer into a hundred-million-pound CEO."

"And you?" I let the question land. "What exactly do you bring to the table besides lying flat in his car?"

"Spencer has money now. But ask him — carefully — how it got there."

"He sleeps with you as a married man. And you're out here bragging about it like a prize."

"That's genuinely pathetic."

Vivienne went white.

I turned and walked out.

I sat in the car park for ten minutes.

I didn't cry.

There was just something stuck in my throat — impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.

Spencer came home that evening.

"What was that today? Coming to the office and making a scene?"

"Vivienne cried for half the afternoon. Mara, when did you become so unreasonable?"

I said nothing. I walked to the study, came back, and dropped the divorce papers on the coffee table. Beside them: my phone, playing a looping clip from the dashcam.

Spencer and Vivienne. In the car. Unmistakable.

"Sign it."

Spencer looked down at the phone. His face went rigid.

"You went through my dashcam?"

He grabbed the papers and tore them apart. Then he hurled my phone against the marble floor.

"Mara, are you insane?!"

"What I do with Vivienne is none of your business."

"You sit in this house, you eat my food, you wear clothes I pay for, you live here doing nothing!"

"You take everything I give you and now you have the nerve to spy on me?"

"How dare you."

I was so stunned by his self-righteous outrage that I couldn't form a single word.

I opened my mouth—