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The Manhattan skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of Alexander's penthouse, a view that had once taken my breath away. Now, after three years, it felt like nothing more than an elaborate cage. I ran my fingers over the cool marble countertop, savoring the rare silence. Alexander wouldn't be back for hours—board meetings on Thursdays always ran late. My phone buzzed against the glass coffee table. Unknown number. I hesitated before opening the message, my stomach tightening with inexplicable dread. A video began to play—grainy but unmistakable. Alexander stood beside his sleek black Tesla outside his Wall Street office, his arms wrapped around a stunning blonde woman. Their kiss wasn't casual; it was intimate, familiar. The kind shared between lovers who knew each other's bodies by heart. I watched it three times, my fingers trembling against the screen, before another message appeared: "Get ready to move out. What's mine is coming home." The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering against the imported Italian tiles. Three years. Three years of believing I meant something to him beyond our arrangement. Three years of telling myself that his calculated generosity—the