Chapter 1

Three months ago, a yacht explosion on the Aegean Sea claimed the life of my husband's older brother, Grant.

My husband, Callum Vance—the youngest and most gifted business prodigy of the Vance family—was lucky enough to survive.

The entire high-society scene in New York buzzed with admiration, praising the Vance family's luck and celebrating the return of their gentle, sophisticated heir.

Only I knew that from the very first day he returned home from the hospital, something was fundamentally wrong.

"Maren, I told you, my PTSD is kicking in hard right now."

In the master bedroom, I stood wearing a silk lace nightgown.

The second my fingers grazed the man's shoulders, he shoved me away.

The sheer speed of his reaction was laced with genuine disgust, a flash of murderous malice in his eyes that I'd never seen before.

Yet, he caught himself instantly.

Masking it with a look of frail agony, he rubbed his temples.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see Grant drowning under the ocean waves. Forgive me, babe. I just can't bring myself to touch you right now."

The sudden shove made me stumble half a step back until my shoulders hit the cold wall.

"Is that so, Callum?"

I offered a faint, graceful smile, casually adjusting the silk collar of my robe.

My voice was dead calm.

"Because if memory serves, your doctor said your psychiatric evaluation came back completely clean."

"Are you doubting me?" He scowled, a wave of suffocating irritation flaring in his eyes.

That kind of raw agitation was something I had never seen from Callum before.

My Callum was always in control of his emotions, endlessly patient and gentle with me.

"Of course not."

Stepping forward, I affectionately smoothed out his shirt collar, my fingertips casually tracing a faint, barely noticeable scar on the side of his neck.

"You surviving that wreck was my absolute salvation."

His frame went rigid for a split second.

Then, pressing a brief, hollow kiss against my forehead, he turned on his heel and walked into the guest room.

I stood in the dim corridor, staring at the shut door.

Raising my hand, I slowly wiped away the faint warmth his lips had left behind.

My husband Callum had a deeply ingrained, subconscious habit.

Whenever he felt guilty or wanted to apologize to me, he'd tap his right thigh with his ring finger.

Just now, though?

The man had tapped his left leg. His twin brother, Grant, was a southpaw. I didn't call him out.

As the sole heiress to the Prescott fortune and founder of an elite architectural firm, throw-it-all-out hysterics without hard proof was a amateur move.

Only the weak lost their composure.

The real explosion went off the following night at the high-profile charity gala hosted by the Vance family to celebrate Callum's miracle recovery.

The family patriarch, Gideon Vance, and matriarch, Genevieve, presided over the head table.

Seated right beside Callum was his sister-in-law, widowed just three months prior—Talia Sterling.

Dressed in a pure white strapless gown, tears glistened in her eyes.

Her slender frame swayed softly under the chandelier lights, playing the frail, tragic white lotus to perfection.

Lowering her voice into a fragile, tearful whimper, Talia murmured.

"Callum, every time I look at Grant's personal belongings, it feels like a knife turning in my chest."

"Could you come over tonight to help me sort through them? Who knows there might be things left behind for you, too."

All eyes at the main table snapped directly onto them.

Making a public plea like that—a newly widowed woman asking her brother-in-law to come over to her private residence late at night—was practically dragging the Vance family name through the dirt.

Old Patriarch Gideon's face instantly darkened, dropping a heavy, resonant humph.

I took a poised sip of my red wine and spoke up with a polished smile.

My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room with crystal clarity.

"Talia, if sorting through estate items is proving too emotionally taxing, I can personally dispatch the top estate management crew from the Prescott Group to handle it."

"Callum is still recovering from trauma; late-night visits to your apartment wouldn't look good for his health—or his standing."

It was a masterclass in politeness, yet it ripped her damsel-in-distress routine wide open.

Talia's face drained of color instantly.

Right on cue, waterworks spilled down her cheeks as she scrambled to her feet.

"Maren, that's not what I meant at all! I just… I miss Grant so much, and seeing Callum reminds me of him!"

Mid-sentence, overwhelmed by sheer "grief," her foot conveniently slipped, sending her falling directly toward me.

Uninterested in the dramatics, I casually took a deliberate step backward.

Rrrrip! Talia's silk dress caught on the corner of the table, sending her crashing onto the carpet in a sprawling, pathetic mess.

Her perfectly sculpted hair fell apart, exposing a full view of her bare shoulders.

"Maren! What the hell is wrong with you?"

A roar of pure venom echoed across the hall.

Before anyone could register what was happening, the "Callum" standing in front of me erupted into a fury.

Bloodshot eyes blazing, he snatched my hand and—

Clatter!

It wasn't a slap; he forcefully yanked his hand away and slammed me straight into the tall champagne tower behind us.

The sound of shattering glass boomed across the dead-silent ballroom.

I hit the floor hard, jagged shards biting deep into my palms. Blood gushed, soaking through the hem of my expensive designer gown alongside spilled champagne.

"Maren Prescott, how can you be so damn malicious?"

Standing right before NYC's top media cameras and elite class, "Callum" thrust a finger at my face, screaming accusations.

"Talia just lost her husband! She's going through hell! And you push her? You humiliate her in public? Where is your sympathy? You're a selfish, jealous, heartless bitch!"

Without so much as a second glance at me bleeding on the floor, he stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Talia with sickening tenderness.

Under the blinding flashbulbs of dozens of press cameras, he scooped her up in a princess carry and swept out of the ballroom.

Earsplitting whispers immediately swept through the crowd.

Society wives who usually kissed the ground I walked on were now practically gloating, their eyes dripping with schadenfreude.

Old Patriarch Gideon's face turned livid as he slammed his palm onto the table. "Absurd! This is an utter farce!"

I pushed myself off the ground, wrapping a silk handkerchief around my bleeding hand.

I didn't shed a tear, nor did I plead for "Callum" to stay.

Because seconds prior to his outburst, my eyes had caught the overturned dessert tray on the main table.

It was a plate of pine nut tarts topped with crushed nuts.

My husband Callum loathed pine nuts.

He wouldn't touch them if his life depended on it.

Grant, on the other hand, craved pine nut pastries.

And right before throwing his childish tantrum, the man standing in front of me had gobbled down two whole tarts.

Staring at the empty archway where they'd rushed out, a cold, sharp smile formed on my lips.

The man who died out at sea was my real husband, Callum.

And the imposter who just ran off with Talia in his arms? That was Grant.