Chapter 1
When I was seventeen, Andrew Grant grabbed an iron pipe from my doorstep and smashed it into the back of my stepfather's head fourteen times.
My stepfather crumpled to the ground, motionless.
Blood flowed through the cracks in the floor, reaching my bare feet.
The police arrived quickly.
As four officers pinned Andrew to the ground and cuffed him, he turned his head and called out to me, "Anna, you're free!"
He smiled, his face dotted with blood.
It was like he hadn't killed someone, but only swatted a mosquito blocking his path.
Andrew went to prison after that.
For ten years, I visited him every month.
He grew from a teenager into a young man. His shoulders got broader, and he spoke less and less.
The only thing that never changed was that every time we met, he'd press his hand to the glass and say, "Anna, wait for me."
The day Andrew got out, I was waiting at the prison gate, holding an umbrella in my hand.
There was no rain.
Andrew glanced at the umbrella and didn't ask anything. He just took it, popped it open, and shielded me from the sun.
That year, I was twenty-seven, and Andrew was twenty-eight.
We got married.
Andrew only had one hundred dollars to his name, and every job application he sent out got turned down.
Nobody wanted to hire a guy who'd spent ten years behind bars.
I told him, "Don't worry, I'll take care of you."
He didn't say anything and just stubbed out his cigarette.
Three days later, he headed to Metropolis on his own, starting out as a laborer on a construction site.
Five years later, he hustled his way to the top and became a CEO.
He had projects spanning commercial real estate and cultural tourism development, with holdings across prime locations in half the city.
After we got married, every account he had used my birthday as the password.
I never once tried to check his accounts.
One day, he accidentally left his tablet on the couch.
A message popped up: [Andrew, the baby kicked me today.]
There was an ultrasound photo attached.
I scrolled up.
There were more than 2,300 chat messages.
They were flirty, intimate, some downright explicit.
There were photos, too.
The girl took selfies, wearing his shirt, posing in an apartment I didn't recognize.
His arm was wrapped around her waist.
He still had our wedding ring on his finger.
Not one of those 2,300 messages had anything about me.
It was like I didn't even exist.
As if, in Andrew's world, there was never an Anna Lane who went through ten years with him while he was in prison.
The door opened. Andrew was back.
I flipped the tablet around, screen facing him. "See for yourself."
He glanced down, and his expression didn't change at all.
He picked up the tablet, closed the chat, locked the screen, and set it back on the table. "Don't look at things you shouldn't."
He said it so casually that it was like those 2,300 messages were sent by someone else, and the name on that ultrasound report had nothing to do with him.
I pulled the divorce agreement out of my bag and set it down in front of him. "Sign it."
He glanced at the agreement, and then stubbed out his cigarette right on top of it. The cigarette burned right through the words "Party A". "I told you, you're not leaving me unless I'm dead."
He stood up and walked toward the stairs. "Anna, stop it."
The door on the third floor closed.
The whole villa was dead silent, like a graveyard.
*****
Less than an hour after Andrew left, my phone rang.
It was an unknown number. "You're Anna, right?"
The girl's voice was girly, sounding like someone who'd always been treated like a princess.
"I figured you'd see it. Andrew said he left his tablet at home and told me not to worry. He said you wouldn't even peek." She giggled. "Guess he doesn't know you as well as he thinks."
I didn't say a word.
"I'm Annie Scott, twenty-three." She paused, like she was picking her words carefully. "Anna, you really should give up your spot.
"Andrew and I have been together for two years. He only feels responsible for you, but he loves me.
"If you leave quietly, he'll give you enough money to make sure the rest of your life is respectable.
"But if you don't leave..."
Her voice suddenly dropped. "This baby in my belly? That's my ace.
"You've been married to Andrew for four years and never managed to get pregnant. I did it in three months.
"Tell me, who do you think he'll pick?"
I hung up.
Then my phone buzzed more than a dozen times. Every single one was a photo Annie sent.
One was about her cooking in that apartment, wearing slippers, with couple photo stickers of the two of them stuck on the fridge.
One was about her trying on clothes at the mall, while Andrew was waiting for her in the lounge area, holding her purse.
One was about a positive pregnancy test, right next to a cup of juice he'd made for her.
The last photo was about Annie curling up on Andrew's lap, her face pressed into his neck.
His hand was resting on her slightly rounded belly.
Our wedding ring was clear as day on his finger.
I set my phone down.
I grabbed the coffee that had gone cold and took a sip.
Then I stood up and smashed the cup against the floor.
I went for the vase next, then the lamp, the fruit bowl, and the oil painting Andrew gave me hanging on the wall. I shattered every single one.