Chapter 1

The familiar click of my penthouse door echoed through the marble foyer as I stepped inside, dropping my luggage with a soft thud against the imported Italian tile. Six months early. Six months of grueling business negotiations in London, condensed into three thanks to my relentless drive to return home. To return to Dexter.

"Surprise," I whispered to myself, a smile tugging at my exhausted face despite the jet lag pulling at my limbs.

I'd imagined his reaction a hundred times during the red-eye flight—his arms wrapping around me, his lips finding mine, his voice murmuring how much he'd missed me. How he couldn't wait to start our wedding preparations properly now that I was back.

But something was wrong.

The scent hit me first—vanilla candles. Rich, sweet vanilla that had never been my preference. I'd always favored lavender for its calming properties, a small luxury I'd insisted on throughout our shared spaces.

"Dexter?" My voice echoed through the penthouse, oddly hollow.

No answer came, but soft jazz drifted from the living room—music I never listened to. Dexter knew that. I preferred classical piano when working, silence when relaxing. This was... wrong.

I moved further inside, my heels clicking against the marble. That's when I saw them—three pieces of expensive-looking luggage clustered near the elevator. Louis Vuitton, if I wasn't mistaken. Not mine. Not Dexter's either.

My heart quickened as I rounded the corner into our living room.

A woman sat on my Italian leather sofa—the one I'd spent weeks selecting to complement the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. She wore silk pajamas that looked suspiciously like they belonged in my bedroom, her bare feet propped up against the armrest as she casually painted her toenails a garish red.

On my television—the massive wall-mounted screen I'd installed specifically for watching financial news broadcasts—a romantic comedy played, the canned laughter grating against my nerves.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice sharper than intended. "I'm looking for Dexter Coleman."

The woman looked up, annoyance flashing across her face before surprise took its place. She was young—early twenties at most. Pretty in that effortless way that made me suddenly conscious of my thirty-two years and the fine lines stress had etched around my eyes.

"Who are you and why do you have a key to Dexter's place?" she asked, setting down the nail polish bottle with deliberate slowness.

The casual possessiveness in her voice made my blood run cold.

"This is my home," I replied, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I'm Maia Hart."

Something flickered in her eyes—not guilt or embarrassment, but calculation. "Oh," she said, stretching the word out. "You must be the fiancée. I'm Persephone Baker."

Before I could respond, movement caught my eye. Dexter emerged from the kitchen—my kitchen—carrying a silver tray. On it sat two perfectly plated servings of eggs Benedict, the hollandaise sauce gleaming under the recessed lighting I'd installed to showcase my art collection.

He wore an apron—one I'd never seen before—tied around his waist, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. His face went completely white when he saw me standing there.

"Maia," he gasped, the tray trembling in his hands. "What are you—how did you—"

"I decided to come home early," I said, watching as his Adam's apple bobbed with a nervous swallow. "Apparently I missed quite a bit while I was gone."

Persephone's laugh cut through the tension, light and musical. "Baby," she called to Dexter, "you didn't tell me your fiancée was coming home today."

Baby.

The word hung in the air between us like a blade.

Dexter's eyes darted between us, his mouth opening and closing without producing sound. Finally, he found his voice.

"Maia, this isn't—Persephone is just staying here temporarily. She's my college junior, she needed housing after her apartment building had water damage and—"

"Oh, don't be so formal," Persephone interrupted, patting the space beside her on my sofa. "Come sit down, Dexter. The breakfast is getting cold."

I watched as she reached for his hand, pulling him toward her with practiced ease. The tray in his hands shook again as he allowed himself to be guided to her side.

"Baby," she murmured, loud enough for me to hear, "you worry too much."