Chapter 1

The day before my wedding, I went to the flat with new bedding I'd just bought.

The door was opened by Conrad's first love.

She was wearing my slippers — bunny slippers, pale cream, with little ears — her hair half-damp, like she'd just stepped out of the shower. She stood in the doorway and smiled at me.

"Can I help you?"

The shopping bag cut into my palm. My eyes went past her to the coffee table, where a property deed lay open, its cover pristine red, as if someone had arranged it there on purpose.

Harper Sterling walked over, picked it up, flipped to the page it wanted me to see, and held it out.

"Oh — I should introduce myself. I'm Harper Sterling."

She paused.

"Also the registered owner of this flat."

I stared at that page.

Legal proprietor: Harper Sterling.

I had paid £860,000 — cash, no mortgage — for this wedding flat. And the deed was in Conrad Dunmore's first love's name.

My first instinct wasn't to cry.

It was: this can't be real.

I checked the door number. Flat 1602. Correct. The keypad code — Conrad's birthday followed by mine — I'd set it myself.

But Harper was leaning against the doorframe like she lived there. Like I was the intruder.

She saw I wasn't speaking and smiled, slowly, the way someone smiles when they're enjoying a role.

"Conrad didn't tell you? The flat's in my name for now."

"For now?"

"Yes, for now. You two are getting married, he didn't want to worry you with all the details. Men—" she stroked the cover of the deed as if stroking her own face — "they always have their own arrangements."

I looked at my slippers on her feet.

Pink ones, bunny ears. I'd bought two pairs last week — pink for me, grey for Conrad.

I'd thought: after the wedding, one pair each.

The pink ones were on her.

In that moment I didn't even want to argue. I took out my phone and called Conrad.

Three rings. He picked up.

"Stella, I'm in the middle of rehearsals at the hotel, the whole thing isn't done yet. Go home, we can look at the flat tomorrow—"

I watched Harper.

"Your first love is in our flat."

Two seconds of silence.

Not the silence of guilt. The silence of someone who doesn't have their story straight yet.

Then: "Don't make a scene. I'll be right there."

He said don't make a scene.

Not let me explain.

I smiled.

"Sure. I'll wait."