Chapter 1

Rumor had it all over Belleridge: Charlotte Foster was a saint. She never raised her voice, never threw tantrums, and didn't shed a single tear when her husband paraded another woman around.

Year after year, she was lingering in the secluded courtyard of the Foster estate, quiet and breathtaking, like a delicate watercolor portrait.

Richard loved her, though always on his own terms.

Whenever his mistress wanted a designer bag, Charlotte received the deed to a flagship store.

When his mistress wanted fireworks, Charlotte got a private buyout of an entire sprawling amusement park.

On Christmas Eve, he would fly back from abroad in the dead of night to kiss her forehead and whisper, "Happy New Year."

Everyone assumed she was resigned to her gilded cage, trapped by her own devotion.

Then she served him the divorce papers and walked away without looking back, leaving the entire city in disbelief.

As it turned out, she was the one who let go.

*****

The day it all crumbled, Richard Foster brought Vivian Lane home. He made no effort to hide her, moving her straight into the master bedroom near mine, the room we had shared for seven years.

The staff walked on eggshells, terrified to speak.

Vivian floated through the halls in a floral dress, smiling and greeting everyone as if she already owned the place.

She was cradling my favorite ceramic vase.

From the top of the stairs, I watched her set the vase onto the rosewood table inherited from my mother.

During the renovations, Richard used to ask my opinion on every minor detail.

Back when his career was starting out, when he had zero cash and zero connections, he spent his nights in my basement, drafting business plans until sunrise.

I got him through that winter. I mentioned a chicken soup I loved as a child in the northern suburbs. He took it to heart and promised I would have it again, hiring Landon, a private chef, solely for that dish.

Yet today, when Vivian complained that the soup was too rich, he fired Landon on the spot.

At dinner, I sat at the head of the table, serving myself as though nothing had changed.

I offered a faint smile. "The soup tastes different today."

Richard, murmuring something to Vivian, spared me no glance. "You aren't usually picky anyway," he mumbled, dismissing it.

A chill settled deep in my chest.

He'd forgotten why he'd hired Landon in the first place, forgotten the woman who'd kept him company through those sleepless nights, and forgotten his vow to let me savor my favorite soup each single day.

Without another word, I pulled the divorce papers from my bag and slid them to the center of the table.

"Divorce papers," I said, my voice steady. "Will you sign them?"

He glanced at the documents. No surprise crossed his face, only the usual weariness he felt toward my expressionless face. Grabbing a pen, he signed his name without looking up. "Done."

He thought I was acting out, throwing a temper tantrum.

In his mind, I would regret this within days and quietly return to my seat, reclaiming my role as the compliant, silent Mrs. Foster.

He failed to realize that the clock was already ticking on our state's thirty-day waiting period.

I was done walking on eggshells to preserve my dignity or a marriage that made me a laughingstock.

In thirty days, once the judge signed the final decree, I would vanish from his life.

*****

On day one of the waiting period, I visited the sanitarium.

Harsh July sunlight streamed through the hallway windows. On the sill, washed-out mosquito repellent stickers reminded me of childhood wishes, now frayed and forgotten.

I pushed open the familiar iron gate, walked past the neat rows of rooms, and stopped at the very end of the corridor.

Gently opening the door, I found my brother Andrew Grant in his wheelchair, clutching a battered red toy car. He was humming an old song off-key, staring out the window with a childlike grin.

His eyes followed the sunlight, bright, clear, and completely untouched by the world.

Kneeling beside him, I smoothed the wrinkles on his shirt. "Hey, Andrew. I'm taking you home."

The words tasted bitter the moment they left my mouth. I had no home.

The Foster family had already laid claim to our estate. My assistant helped me sort out the divorce settlement papers, while my lawyer and the Foster family's financial team busied themselves dividing up the company shares.

My parents had died in an avalanche during my college years, lost in the mountains.

Andrew was my only remaining family, yet he no longer recognized me.

Three years ago, a business dispute led to Richard's kidnapping. Andrew had chased the getaway car to rescue him.

When the vehicle smashed through a guardrail, Andrew lunged forward, shoving Richard to safety and taking the impact himself, suffering a severe head injury.

"He might never wake up," the neurologist had warned me. "If he does, he won't be the same. He'll have the cognitive capacity of a toddler."

Back then, I believed I could face anything. I had Andrew and Richard.

Now, I had no one.

My phone vibrated, snapping me out of the haze. Vivian's name flashed on the screen.

After a brief hesitation, I swiped to answer.

"Oh, Charlotte, I'm so sorry. I was trying to post a tweet and dialed you by mistake," she chirped, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that always grated on my nerves.

Then, adopting a casual tone, she added, "I'm officially moved in. Rick is being incredibly sweet. He cleared out the master bedroom to make sure I feel right at home. Honestly, I've never been happier."

I stared out the window. The sunlight hit the glass, the harsh glare stinging my eyes.

Hanging up, I opened Twitter. There was her post: [Finally moved into my love's house. The air is practically sweet here.]

The attached photo showed the master bathroom, with two toothbrushes on the sink, one pink, one blue. The sight of them felt like a physical blow.

Those were identical to the toothbrushes Richard and I used to use. He said picking different colors meant we'd never mix them up, and I believed him for seven years.

I stared at the photo, let out a laugh, and tapped the heart icon.

Underneath, I left a comment: [Funny. My dog used to love that spot, too. He always picked it for his dump.]