Chapter 1

A single car crash was all it took for Grant Whitaker to forget I existed.

He couldn't fathom how he, the CEO of Whitaker Holdings, had ended up married to a former receptionist with a community college associate degree.

The day he was discharged from the hospital, he slid a divorce settlement across the table.

"Ms. Hale," he said, his voice clipped and strictly business. "Let's make this clean. Keep our dignity intact."

I nodded, letting my eyes go red. But inside? A full-blown fireworks display was going off in my chest.

Three years.

I had waited three years for this day.

I was a normal woman who appreciated a good-looking man and had my fair share of wild thoughts. Yet I’d married a man so rigidly disciplined it was almost comical.

I was suffocating.

A second later, my phone buzzed. My best friend, Tessa, had just sent me photos of a brooding, artistic-looking guy.

Photoshoot next week. You in?

Grant sat in the reception room, his expression as detached as if we were negotiating a standard corporate merger.

"Ms. Hale. Please, sit."

I played along, taking the seat across from him. His face was leaner than before the hospital stay, the sharp angles of his jaw even more pronounced.

"I had my divorce attorney draft the settlement." He pushed a thick file toward me. "The Brooklyn condo is yours. In addition, you will be financially compensated."

I didn't say a word. I just stared at him, forcing my eyes to water.

He probably thought I was heartbroken, or worse, that I was going to cling to him. After a beat of silence, he added, "The number should be more than adequate."

I flipped open the agreement.

One million dollars.

The scream of pure joy clawing at my throat almost broke free. I wanted to jump up and cheer. Instead, I bit down on my lower lip so hard it turned white.

A million bucks. Plus a Brooklyn condo.

This was enough to keep me comfortable for years. I could finally breathe. I’d never have to trap myself in a cold, loveless marriage for anyone’s sake ever again.

Grant, misinterpreting my white-knuckled grip on the paper as devastation, pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me. His tone softened a fraction.

"Don't cry."

I took the tissue, lowered my head, and signed my name.

I had spent five years at Whitaker Holdings, clawing my way up from receptionist to Operations Manager. But no matter how many promotions I got, after New York rent, utilities, and living expenses, my savings account hovered at a pathetic fifty grand.

Grant watched me close the folder.

"Do you need my driver to take you back?"

"No."

He nodded, standing up and heading for the door. Right at the threshold, he paused, though he didn't look back.

"The divorce has been filed with the New York State Supreme Court. As agreed, within thirty days, neither of our divorce attorneys will submit the final judgment paperwork. When the time comes, I'll pick you up, and we'll go to the firm to finalize it."

"Okay."

The second the door clicked shut, I chugged a glass of ice water and finally let out a laugh.

Being Mrs. Whitaker for the last three years felt less like a marriage and more like a polite roommate agreement. He spent most of his time locked in his study. We barely exchanged ten words a day.

Once, I had deliberately paraded past him in a slinky silk slip dress.

He had looked up, scanned me once, and said, "It's cold. Don't catch a chill."

That was it.

I used to wonder if I’d accidentally married a monk who’d escaped from a monastery.

Back at the Brooklyn condo, I cracked open a hard cider, ordered spicy hot wings and fries, and prepped for an all-night binge-watching celebration.

But after three bites, my stomach violently rebelled.

I sprinted to the bathroom and threw up everything.

As I slumped against the cold porcelain, gasping for air, my phone rang.

Paige Whitaker. Grant's younger sister.

"Nora, did you sign the papers?"

"Yeah."

Her voice cracked instantly. "Are you two trying to break a speed record? When Grant gets his memory back, he’s going to regret this for the rest of his life!"

"Weren't you always Team Camille?" I asked, rinsing my mouth at the sink. "Didn't you tell me she was the one girl from college he could never get over?"

Paige choked on her words, her voice dropping. "I was stupid back then. But when my brother married you, he practically went to war with Dad. He bypassed the family lawyers, ignored the trust fund restrictions, and dragged you straight to City Hall. Dad almost cut off his trust and stripped his board seats."

"Paige," I interrupted. "Before your brother lost his memory, we spoke maybe ten sentences to each other a month."

Dead silence on the other end.

After I hung up, I sank back onto the couch. My appetite for the wings was completely gone.

A text from Tessa popped up.

Heard Mrs. Whitaker is back on the market?

The divorce isn't finalized yet. Not technically single.

She replied with a smirking emoji, followed by a contact card.

The profile picture was a deep blue ocean. The bio read: Documentary photographer—weather, coastlines, and people.

I clicked through to his Instagram. Sharp composition, cool tones. Genuinely talented.

Tessa's voice note followed. "Julian Mercer. My husband's junior from grad school. Funny, artsy, and most importantly—" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "—a completely different species from that monastery-escapee you married."

I texted back: Shut up.

But I hit 'Add Friend' anyway.

Just as I tossed my phone aside, an X notification popped up.

I tapped it idly.

Grant's name was trending.

It was a paparazzi shot. Grant and Camille Vale, walking shoulder-to-shoulder out of JFK Airport. He was pulling her luggage.

The hashtags were blowing up.

#WhitakerCEOAirportReunion

#MrsWhitakerTragic

#ThreeYearStandIn

I stared at the photo for a long time.

A ridiculous thought slowly surfaced in my mind. Was Grant's sudden rush for a divorce perfectly timed for Camille's return to New York? Was this all pre-arranged?

Chapter 1

A single car crash was all it took for Grant Whitaker to forget I existed.

He couldn't fathom how he, the CEO of Whitaker Holdings, had ended up married to a former receptionist with a community college associate degree.

The day he was discharged from the hospital, he slid a divorce settlement across the table.

"Ms. Hale," he said, his voice clipped and strictly business. "Let's make this clean. Keep our dignity intact."

I nodded, letting my eyes go red. But inside? A full-blown fireworks display was going off in my chest.

Three years.

I had waited three years for this day.

I was a normal woman who appreciated a good-looking man and had my fair share of wild thoughts. Yet I’d married a man so rigidly disciplined it was almost comical.

I was suffocating.

A second later, my phone buzzed. My best friend, Tessa, had just sent me photos of a brooding, artistic-looking guy.

Photoshoot next week. You in?

Grant sat in the reception room, his expression as detached as if we were negotiating a standard corporate merger.

"Ms. Hale. Please, sit."

I played along, taking the seat across from him. His face was leaner than before the hospital stay, the sharp angles of his jaw even more pronounced.

"I had my divorce attorney draft the settlement." He pushed a thick file toward me. "The Brooklyn condo is yours. In addition, you will be financially compensated."

I didn't say a word. I just stared at him, forcing my eyes to water.

He probably thought I was heartbroken, or worse, that I was going to cling to him. After a beat of silence, he added, "The number should be more than adequate."

I flipped open the agreement.

One million dollars.

The scream of pure joy clawing at my throat almost broke free. I wanted to jump up and cheer. Instead, I bit down on my lower lip so hard it turned white.

A million bucks. Plus a Brooklyn condo.

This was enough to keep me comfortable for years. I could finally breathe. I’d never have to trap myself in a cold, loveless marriage for anyone’s sake ever again.

Grant, misinterpreting my white-knuckled grip on the paper as devastation, pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me. His tone softened a fraction.

"Don't cry."

I took the tissue, lowered my head, and signed my name.

Grant watched me close the folder.

"Do you need my driver to take you back?"

"No."

He nodded, standing up and heading for the door. Right at the threshold, he paused, though he didn't look back.

"Okay."

The second the door clicked shut, I chugged a glass of ice water and finally let out a laugh.

Being Mrs. Whitaker for the last three years felt less like a marriage and more like a polite roommate agreement. He spent most of his time locked in his study. We barely exchanged ten words a day.

Once, I had deliberately paraded past him in a slinky silk slip dress.

He had looked up, scanned me once, and said, "It's cold. Don't catch a chill."

That was it.

I used to wonder if I’d accidentally married a monk who’d escaped from a monastery.

Back at the Brooklyn condo, I cracked open a hard cider, ordered spicy hot wings and fries, and prepped for an all-night binge-watching celebration.

But after three bites, my stomach violently rebelled.

I sprinted to the bathroom and threw up everything.

As I slumped against the cold porcelain, gasping for air, my phone rang.

Paige Whitaker. Grant's younger sister.

"Nora, did you sign the papers?"

"Yeah."

Her voice cracked instantly. "Are you two trying to break a speed record? When Grant gets his memory back, he’s going to regret this for the rest of his life!"

"Weren't you always Team Camille?" I asked, rinsing my mouth at the sink. "Didn't you tell me she was the one girl from college he could never get over?"

"Paige," I interrupted. "Before your brother lost his memory, we spoke maybe ten sentences to each other a month."

Dead silence on the other end.

After I hung up, I sank back onto the couch. My appetite for the wings was completely gone.

A text from Tessa popped up.

Heard Mrs. Whitaker is back on the market?

The divorce isn't finalized yet. Not technically single.

She replied with a smirking emoji, followed by a contact card.

The profile picture was a deep blue ocean. The bio read: Documentary photographer—weather, coastlines, and people.

I clicked through to his Instagram. Sharp composition, cool tones. Genuinely talented.

I texted back: Shut up.

But I hit 'Add Friend' anyway.

Just as I tossed my phone aside, an X notification popped up.

I tapped it idly.

Grant's name was trending.

It was a paparazzi shot. Grant and Camille Vale, walking shoulder-to-shoulder out of JFK Airport. He was pulling her luggage.

The hashtags were blowing up.

#WhitakerCEOAirportReunion

#MrsWhitakerTragic

#ThreeYearStandIn

I stared at the photo for a long time.

A ridiculous thought slowly surfaced in my mind. Was Grant's sudden rush for a divorce perfectly timed for Camille's return to New York? Was this all pre-arranged?