Chapter 1

An hour after my third IVF cycle failed, I learned that my husband had removed my name from the screenplay I had spent a year writing—and replaced it with the name of the girl whose tuition I once paid.

My phone buzzed against the hospital blanket.

The blood test had confirmed the failure that morning. Persistent bleeding had kept me under observation with an IV in my hand.

Tristan knew when the result was due.

He had not called.

The message was from Lydia Hale, the younger student whose tuition I had once paid.

She had sent me a screenshot of our studio’s fifth-anniversary announcement.

Lead Screenwriter: Lydia Hale.

Every scene, character, and line the investors had praised was mine.

My name appeared nowhere.

Another message arrived.

Lydia: Vesper, please don’t misunderstand. Tristan said the project needed a younger voice. I reminded him that the original concept was yours, but he said you wouldn’t mind helping me get started.

Lydia: You’re the reason I have this opportunity. I’ll always be grateful.

Three years earlier, Lydia had cried in my arms because no studio would hire her. I revised her résumé, helped with the deposit on her first apartment, and persuaded Tristan to make her my assistant.

Now she was thanking me for the opportunity to steal my name.

I called Tristan.

He answered on the seventh ring. Music and applause spilled through the phone.

“Vesper, I’m in the middle of the anniversary event. What happened?”

“You removed my name from Glass House.”

“I was going to explain when I got home.”

“Explain now.”

He sighed. “The investors wanted a fresh voice. Lydia handled the revisions while you were focused on treatment.”

“She changed three lines.”

“The screenplay belongs to the studio. We own the studio together. The money still comes home to us.”

“If the name doesn’t matter, why did you give it to her?”

He went quiet.

“Because she needs the credit more than you do.”

“And I don’t?”

“You’re my wife. You already have a place here.”

A place behind him, apparently.

“You haven’t attended a production meeting in months,” he continued. “You can’t disappear and expect everything to wait.”

“I was undergoing the treatment you asked me to try again.”

“I never forced you to put your life on hold.”

He had asked for one more cycle. He had promised to protect my position until I returned.

Instead, I had received the result alone while he celebrated with the woman wearing my name.

Lydia’s voice drifted through the phone.

“Tristan, the photographers are waiting for us.”

Us.

“Vesper, I have to go. We’ll discuss this when you’re calmer.”

“No. We’ll discuss it when you’re ready to tell me the truth.”

I ended the call.

Seconds later, Lydia posted a photograph. She stood beside Tristan in a purple dress, his hand resting against her lower back.

She was standing in my place.

I saved the photograph, the announcement, and every message she had sent.

Then I opened the number of a divorce attorney I had once saved but never dared to call.

Evelyn Hart. Divorce Attorney.

Calling did not mean I had decided to leave.

It meant Tristan would no longer be the only person who knew what leaving would cost me.

I pressed Call.

A woman answered after the second ring.

“Evelyn Hart Law Offices. How may I help you?”

“I’d like to consult an attorney about a divorce.”