Chapter 1

After five years of marriage, Peter had breakfast with me for the first time.

But there was a three-year-old boy sitting beside him.

"My buddy from the military died. The kid has no one to take care of him. Let's adopt him."

The child looked up, his features a carbon copy of Peter's.

I laughed coldly.

"Your friend's kid? He looks just like you!"

His expression changed.

"She doesn't want any official status, she'll just live here to help take care of the kid... You'll still be my wife, plus we'll have a child. What a great arrangement!"

I set down my fork, looking at this man who owned three companies.

The sixty-million-dollar hole in Peter Corporation—every cent filled by my father's money.

"Peter, I had my lawyer draft the divorce papers. Take your woman and your kid, and get out!"

He picked up the child and set him on the chair, then turned to face me, hands sliding into his pockets.

"Dorman, you've been married to me for five years. Whose name is on the incorporation papers for those three companies?"

"Yours."

"Whose name is on the property deed?"

"Yours."

"Right." He pulled out a chair and sat down, leisurely picking up a piece of toast. "That sixty million from your dad—that's an investment in the company. Not a single word of it has anything to do with you personally."

He took a bite of the toast.

"What exactly do you think you can divorce me with?"

The three-year-old boy sat in his high chair, poking at a yogurt cup with his spoon, glancing at me after each poke.

His brow bone, his nose bridge, even that mole at the corner of his mouth—all perfect copies of Peter.

"You think I didn't prepare?"

"Prepare what? Find a lawyer?" He laughed. "Sergio, right? I had dinner with him yesterday. His firm is now Peter Corporation's legal team."

I stared at him.

He set down the toast, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and stood up.

"Dorman, stop making a scene. Mary will be coming over this afternoon. Help clean up the room next door."

He walked to the door to change his shoes. As he bent down to tie his laces, he glanced back at the child.

"Andrew, behave. Daddy will be home tonight."

Daddy, not uncle. He wasn't even bothering to hide it anymore.

Twelve minutes after the door closed, my phone rang. Unknown number.

"Dorman, this is Mary." Her voice was soft and sweet.

"Peter said I should come over at three this afternoon. Is the room ready?"

"What else did he tell you?"

"He said... you'd agreed."

"Which part of what I said sounded like agreement?"

Silence for two seconds on the other end.

"Dorman, I really won't take up much space. I'll just help take care of Andrew, do some cooking. Think of me as a free nanny..."

"That person pinned on your Twitter—what's his contact name?"

Her breathing hitched.

"I saw it this morning. Between eight and nine, you sent him eight messages. The last one said—'Honey, did she agree? I'm so nervous.'"

"Dorman..."

"You also have an Instagram account called 'M's Happiness Code,' with 1.17 million followers. Three months ago you posted a video with a living room in the background—warm lighting, mahogany coffee table, custom Italian curtains. You told the camera, 'This is the home I share with my husband.'"

The girl went silent.

I continued: "That living room is mine. Those curtains I ordered from Milan. That coffee table I brought when I moved in."

More silence.

"Are you still coming at three?"

Her voice was small, but showed no sign of backing down.

"Dorman, Peter told me to come."

At three o'clock sharp, the doorbell rang.

She wore a cream-colored knit dress, her hair in a low ponytail, her skin so pale it seemed to glow.

When she smiled, dimples appeared deep enough to hold wine.

"Hello, Dorman." She bent down, dragging two suitcases.

The boy jumped down from the sofa and threw himself into her arms.

"Mommy!"

She picked up the child, kissed his forehead, then looked at me.

Not a trace of guilt in her eyes.

She turned a circle in the living room, as if returning to her own home.

Maybe in her mind, this had always been her home.

"Dorman, which way is the guest room? I can find it myself."

"That ring on your left hand."

Her smile froze.

On her left ring finger sat a sapphire ring. My engagement ring.

Two years ago, Peter said he'd sent it for maintenance. It never came back.

She pulled her hand behind her back.

"Peter gave it to me..."

"I know who gave it to you."

I turned and headed upstairs.

Her voice followed from behind, small, with a sweet, grievance-tinged quality.

"Dorman, I'm really just here to help."