Chapter 1

My eighth-anniversary gift was pinned to another woman’s dress.

Sloane Mercer stood at the premiere entrance, one hand resting over her still-flat stomach.

Every burst of camera flashes lit the sapphire beneath her collarbone—the one my mother had left me.

Last night, that brooch had been locked in my bedroom safe.

“Lena.” Adrian stepped into my line of sight and handed me a new seating card. “There’s been a last-minute change. You’re in the second row.”

I looked down at it. My seat in the center of the front row now bore Sloane’s name. The seat beside hers belonged to my husband.

“She’s never attended a premiere this big,” Adrian said quietly. “And she’s pregnant. Don’t embarrass her tonight.”

“Is that why you gave her the brooch?”

His jaw tightened, as if I had chosen the worst possible moment to ask the least important question.

“It’s one piece of jewelry. You can design a hundred more.” He lowered his voice. “She needs something that tells the press she belongs here. You’re already my wife, Lena. You don’t have to fight her for everything.”

Over the past eight years, Adrian’s other women had sent me photographs, voice messages, and hotel addresses. Each believed she was the one he had truly chosen.

None had worn my gown, my mother’s heirloom, or taken the seat with my name on it. Adrian had never personally brought one to me before.

I handed the second-row card back to the usher. Then I removed the pass marked MRS. VALE from my dress and placed it in Sloane’s hand.

“Don’t change anything,” I said. “She can have my seat tonight.”

Sloane looked down at the title. She couldn’t hide her smile.

Adrian looked relieved. He thought I had finally learned to behave.

As I headed for the exit, I took out my phone and messaged Nora.

Open the apartment above the studio. I’m not going home tonight.

Someone called after me. A reporter pushed through the barrier and held a microphone toward my face.

“Mrs. Vale, why aren’t you entering with your husband? The internet says Sloane is carrying his baby.”

I stopped.

Only last night, Adrian had told me not to leave after the premiere. He had booked my favorite restaurant to make up for our missed anniversary dinner.

He had known about the baby, the dress, and the seat. He simply hadn’t planned to tell me.

I looked back toward the entrance.

Adrian was offering Sloane his hand. As she slipped her arm through his, a photographer shouted, “Mr. and Mrs. Vale, over here!”

People nearby laughed.

Adrian didn’t correct him. He adjusted the fabric at Sloane’s shoulder, turning my mother’s sapphire toward the cameras.

Eight years ago, my mother had pinned that brooch to my wedding gown. After she died, I sometimes couldn’t breathe when Adrian failed to answer his phone. No matter what he had done, I apologized first, came home first, and begged him not to leave.

He knew what frightened me and how much I would tolerate. Tonight, he had counted on both.

My phone vibrated.

Adrian had sent me a message.

Don’t make a scene out front. Wait in the lounge. We’ll go home together afterward.

He didn’t ask whether I would wait. He assumed it.

I turned off location sharing and sent Nora the address of the apartment. The reporter was still waiting for an answer, but I walked through the barrier and climbed into a cab at the curb.

As the door began to close, applause thundered through the lobby again.

On the screen inside, Adrian helped Sloane into my seat.

I sent him the shortest message I had written in eight years.

You already made your choice.