Chapter 1

My phone lit up in the dark.

It was a photo.

In a dim booth at a bar, my husband, Alistair, had his arm around my best friend, Vespera.

He was kissing her.

Three seconds later, the photo disappeared.

Then came a message.

Sent that by mistake.

I stared at the screen as my fingers slowly went cold.

The picture was gone.

But I had seen the hotel key card in Vespera’s hand.

The hotel name.

The room number.

Everything.

A few minutes later, Alistair sent me a voice message.

“Maren, I’m not coming home tonight.”

“Vespera had too much to drink. I need to stay and take care of her.”

He paused.

“You’ve always been understanding.”

“Don’t make a scene.”

Understanding.

That word again.

We had been married for two years.

Every time he asked me to step aside for Vespera, he called me understanding.

And every single time, I forgave him.

Until tonight.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside Room 1204.

The door wasn’t fully closed.

Vespera’s voice drifted through the gap.

“Alistair, what if she finds out?”

He laughed.

“Finds out what?”

“She won’t leave.”

My breath caught.

“She’ll cry for a few days.”

“I’ll say a few nice things, and she’ll get over it.”

“She can’t live without me.”

“Without me and the company, she wouldn’t even know who she is.”

Tears spilled down my face.

So that was what two years of patience had taught him.

Not that I loved him.

Not that I trusted him.

Only that I would never leave.

I wiped my tears away.

Then I pushed open the door.

Alistair was sitting on the couch in a bathrobe.

Vespera was beside him, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

The second he saw me, his brows pulled together.

Not with guilt.

With irritation.

“Maren?”

“How did you find us?”

Vespera moved even closer to him.

Alistair lowered his voice.

“She’s drunk.”

“Maren, we’ll talk about this at home.”

Vespera laughed.

“She already saw us.”

“What’s the point of explaining?”

Alistair didn’t move away from her.

Pain tore through my chest.

Then, just as suddenly, everything inside me went still.

I reached into my bag.

Pulled out a document.

And placed it on the coffee table.

“Sign it.”

Alistair looked down.

“Divorce papers?”

Then he laughed.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“Over tonight?”

I looked straight at him.

“No.”

“Over seventy-seven times.”

The room went silent.

Alistair gave a cold laugh and picked up the pen.

“Fine.”

“If you want drama, I’ll give you drama.”

He didn’t even finish reading the papers before signing his name.

Then he tossed the pen onto the table.

“Maren.”

“You can’t live without me.”

“One week.”

“Give it a week, and you’ll come crawling back.”

I picked up the papers.

I didn’t argue.

I simply turned and walked away.

By the time I got home, it was after midnight.

I opened the bottom drawer of my desk.

Inside was a thick leather notebook.

I didn’t flip through the earlier pages.

I went straight to the last one.

Picked up a pen.

And wrote a number.

77.

My hand paused.

Then, beneath it, I wrote one final line.

This was the last time.