Chapter 2

Charles looked as though he'd heard an absurd joke. Surprise flickered through his charming eyes, then gave way to deep mockery. He took the agreement, casually flipped through two pages, and scoffed before looking back at me, his gaze appraising and faintly contemptuous.

"Evelyn, you certainly know your place." His tone was playful, as if judging an object that had finally learned obedience. "So, knowing Vivian was returning today, did you come to prove your loyalty? Or did you think this would get you a bigger cut?"

The icy needle in my chest seemed to sink deeper, but I did not flinch. I wondered, 'Does it hurt? Maybe I went numb long ago.' I only looked at him: my nominal husband, legal partner, actual employer, and the jailer of my heart.

"The three-year agreement is up. Miss Summers is back, so I'm stepping aside." I repeated the dry sentence I'd written on the cover page. "It's fair. I'll speak to the Wynn family myself. I won't make things hard for you."

Charles stared at me, searching my face for any sign I was acting: unwillingness, hurt, or even an attempt to play hard to get. But he found nothing. My eyes were two deep wells, reflecting neither him nor any emotion.

That seemed to surprise him, but his surprise quickly deepened into mockery. He probably thought I was still the Wynn Family's meek, timid daughter who obeyed his every command, and that even my rebellion was stiff, formulaic, and utterly dull.

"Fine." Without looking at me again, he casually tossed the agreement onto the nearby entryway cabinet with a smack. "My lawyer will contact you. If there's nothing else, move out soon. Vivian doesn't like things other people have used."

That last sentence felt like a rusty dull blade dragging slowly across my throat. At my side, my fingernails dug deep into my palm.

"Okay," I heard myself say.

He didn't stay another second. He pulled open the door and strode out with a blast of freezing air, and soon the sound of his engine faded into the silence of the villa district.

In an instant, the vast house held only me and the dying flames in the fireplace. Though the heat was blasting, I felt colder than if I stood amid ice and snow.

I walked to the entryway cabinet, picked up the agreement he had discarded, and ran my fingertips over its icy cover.

Three years, more than a thousand days. I played Mrs. Kingston so faithfully that I almost believed the role. But Charles had always cherished someone else. No matter how convincing my performance was, I remained a substitute.

I went upstairs to pack. There was little to take: most things in the house bore the label "Charles" or "Mrs. Kingston" and did not belong to Evelyn.

My belongings were few: several everyday outfits, basic skincare products, a few half-read books, and a small jewelry box. It held nothing Charles had given me, only an old-fashioned pearl brooch left by my mother.

By the time I carried my small suitcase downstairs, night had fallen. Fine snow grains drifted outside, rustling against the glass. I took one last look at the "home" I had lived in for three years: luxurious, cold, lifeless, more like a carefully staged showroom.

I closed the door, left the key in the combination lockbox by the entrance, and walked into the wind and snow without looking back.

My ride still hadn't arrived. I waited outside the villa district as knife-like wind lashed my face and snow slipped down my collar, melting into icy water. I remembered a winter night two years earlier, when the snow fell harder and faster.

Charles received an overseas call from Vivian, who said she was sick and depressed in Florence. Without hesitation, he planned to drive to the neighboring city that very night and catch the earliest international flight.

Worried about the slippery roads, I voiced my concern, only for him to snap coldly, "Don't meddle." Halfway there, a blizzard shut down the highway and left him stranded.

When I heard, I drove through the heavy snow for hours with hot soup and warm clothes, hoping to find him. At a service area several miles from where his car had broken down, I received a brief message from him:

Charles wrote: [I've called for help. Turn back. Vivian needs peace and quiet. Don't come bother her.]

In that snowbound service-area parking lot, I held my phone, which suddenly felt ice-cold, and watched snow thicken on the car window. For the first time, I understood that some hearts are frozen ground no amount of warmth or devotion can ever thaw.

After that, I really did stop "meddling."

My car arrived. I opened the door and left that freezing night behind, along with every ounce of caution, compromise, and restraint I'd carried through those three years.

I didn't return to the Wynn family; that place was hardly warmer than Charles's villa. With savings from several years of work, I rented a tiny apartment in a less bustling but well-connected part of Northbridge.

It had one bedroom and a living room, faced south, and got plenty of sunlight. Little by little, I began trying to rediscover Evelyn, the person I was, rather than Mrs. Kingston.

The divorce went unusually smoothly. Charles's lawyer worked quickly, likely under orders to clear the way for Miss Summers. The property split was straightforward.

I received the small share I was owed, enough to keep me secure for a while. Charles never appeared, as if neither I nor our three-year marriage had ever touched his life.

Good. A clean break.

I changed my number, shared it only with the few friends who needed it, and began job hunting. The Wynn family called several times with predictable displeasure and criticism.

They blamed me for being "selfish" and "immature" and for damaging relations with the Kingston family. I listened quietly, then politely but firmly hung up.

The world seemed quiet and spacious. I had time to read, paint, tend the few plants on my balcony, and even try dishes I'd never made before. Life was simple, almost solitary, yet I felt grounded, no longer suspended in uncertainty, guessing another person's moods.

It was not until a month later that I saw news of Charles and Vivian in the financial press.

In the photos, Charles held Vivian's waist at an upscale charity gala. A handsome man and beautiful woman, they seemed a perfect match. Before the cameras, she smiled radiantly, nestled happily in his arms. The suggestive headline hinted that good news was imminent.

Not long after, a gilded invitation arrived at my apartment. It was for Charles and Vivian's engagement party, held at the most luxurious five-star hotel in Northbridge.

One of Charles's assistants delivered the invitation. Though respectful, he regarded me with a barely perceptible trace of pity and curiosity. They probably imagined that receiving such an invitation would leave a discarded ex-wife like me utterly humiliated and distraught.

I looked at the invitation, where "Mr. Kingston" and "Miss Summers" appeared side by side, followed by the line, "Miss Wynn is cordially invited to attend." Suddenly, I laughed.

Of course I will go. Why would I not?

I flicked the invitation's smooth surface, then picked up my phone and found an unsaved number I knew by heart.

The number belonged to Logan Rivers, Charles's fiercest business rival and the man he had hated for years yet could never take down. Logan was now at the helm of the Rivers Group.

Logan was rumored to be volatile, ruthless, and unpredictable. He guarded his private life closely and rarely appeared with a woman. His feud with Charles dated back to their fathers, and neither man had yielded through years of open and covert conflict.

I called him.