Chapter 2

Bianca dragged her suitcase into the hotel suite, shut the door behind her, and finally let herself fall apart.

My fingers swiped numbly across the phone screen as I called Isabella Jenkins—my college roommate, now a divorce attorney.

"Bianca? Oh my god, you finally called me back! I saw the news. Are you alright?" Isabella's voice was thick with worry.

"I need you to handle my divorce," I said directly, my voice steadier than I'd expected.

Two seconds of silence passed on the other end. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"He chose to save Megan," I said tersely, each word scraping my throat raw. "Right in front of those kidnappers."

"That homewrecker!" Isabella exploded. "I'll get the paperwork started immediately. Do you have any solid evidence of their affair?"

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the city lights sprawling below. "No concrete evidence yet," I said, "but I know exactly where to look."

After hanging up, I took a long, scalding shower, trying to scrub away both the musty stench of that abandoned warehouse and the humiliation from Finley's choice. The hot water poured over my skin, but no matter how long I stood there, I couldn't feel any warmth.

Early the next morning, I returned to the Duncan family to pack more clothes. Finley wasn't there. No doubt he was at the hospital, keeping his precious junior Megan company for some "psychological counseling."

I marched straight to his study and powered on his computer. The password was our wedding anniversary. What cruel irony. With practiced efficiency, I combed through his emails and social media accounts. Years of executive training had taught me exactly how to find what I needed.

At first, I found nothing. Finley was discreet, at least on the surface. But when I opened the recycle bin in his cloud storage, a cluster of deleted photos emerged.

My fingers hovered over the trackpad, trembling. I could barely bring myself to click. "Just breathe," I told myself. Then, finally, I opened the first file.

I opened the photo. There was Megan, wearing Finley's shirt, perched on our kitchen island, smiling sweetly at the camera. The hem barely covered her thighs, revealing her long, smooth legs. The timestamp showed it was taken three months ago, the very night Finley had told me he was working late.

My stomach twisted into knots as I flipped through the photos one by one. Most weren't explicit, but the intimacy was even more sickening—Megan lying on our sofa taking a selfie, Finley's hand just visible at the edge of the frame. Megan's mirror selfie in Finley's office, his blurred reflection in the glass; Megan wearing a necklace I'd never seen before, which I later found on Finley's credit card statement.

The last photo was the most damning of all: Finley's sleeping profile, the angle clearly showing someone had been lying beside him on the pillow. Those were the Leshana sheets I'd picked out myself—as if I could ever mistake those.

I transferred the photos to my phone almost on autopilot, then kept digging. In his work email, I found several messages to Megan. On the surface, they looked strictly business, but everyone was signed, "Yours, Finley."

The bottom drawer of the desk was locked, but that was hardly an obstacle. I grabbed a hairpin, jimmied the lock, and it popped open. Inside were several jewelry boxes and a diary, which were meant for Megan.

I flipped open the diary, only to find it wasn't filled with Finley's personal thoughts, but rather a collection of his "precious memories" with Megan. The latest entry read, "Today, Megan wore a white dress. She looked just like Bianca back in college. But Megan is so much gentler than Bianca ever was. She never loses her temper with me."

My hands trembled uncontrollably, forcing me to set the diary down. Only then did I realize that all these years, I hadn't just been competing with Megan. I'd also been fighting a losing battle against my own past self.

"Mrs. Duncan? You're home?"

The sudden voice of the housekeeper made me jump. I quickly shut the drawer and turned to face her. "Naomi," I said evenly, "I'll be moving out for a while."

Naomi Preston hesitated, then said softly, "Mr. Duncan came home last night... He was really worried about you."

"Oh, really?" I forced a bitter smile. "Did he ever explain why he chose to save Miss Burns over me?"

One look at Naomi's face told me everything. I realized even the help knew the truth.

As I finished packing my essentials and was about to leave, Naomi Preston hurried after me to the door. "Mrs. Duncan, there's really nothing between them. She's just some young thing."

I looked at Naomi and gently interrupted her, "Naomi, do you know what Mr. Duncan keeps locked in that desk drawer?"

Her eyes flickered briefly, then dimmed with resignation. Even the housekeeper saw it more clearly than I did.

Back at the hotel, I began methodically organizing the evidence. Isabella was right. To gain the upper hand in this divorce case, I needed more leverage.