Chapter 1

A familiar piece of advice used to circulate among the great households. Whenever a young bride showed a hint of defiance, she would be told to look to me, Yvonne Summers, as an example.

After all, I was the wife who had quietly accepted my husband keeping three mistresses, a woman who seemed to bear every hardship without complaint.

At society gatherings, the older women would often sigh and remark how much more peaceful their lives would be if their own daughters-in-law could give them half as much peace.

None of them knew the truth, of course.

The wife they held up as a model of perfect virtue had already quietly declined a royal commendation.

Then, on an ordinary evening, I placed the divorce papers on my husband's desk.

The day I declared I was leaving the Ashford family, everyone in the city was convinced I had lost my mind.

My husband of eight years, Elliot Ashford, was no exception.

*****

I laid the divorce papers on Elliot's desk. The single sheet looked frail beneath the stack of heavy files, like a stray snowflake, insignificant and easily buried.

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice steady and quiet.

Elliot didn't glance up, his pen moving briskly across the page. He acted as though this was just another one of my moods. "What is it now, Yvonne?" he said, his tone cool.

"Samuel's lessons are your responsibility," he added without looking at me, using our eight-year-old son to anchor me, as he so often did.

All of Willowgage knew me as the city's most dutiful wife.

They said I was gentle, generous, and unshakable, and that I held my place as Elliot's wife with grace, even while my husband kept mistresses in the city.

But what they never saw was the hollowness beneath that image. They never knew how worn and weathered I had become inside.

I looked at Elliot's sharp profile, still as striking as it was eight years ago.

Now, though, all I felt was a deep cold, a chill that had settled into my bones and left me numb.

I didn't move or speak again. I just stood there, silent and still.

In the study, the scratch of his pen was the only sound, measured against the silent advance of the evening outside.

Finally, he seemed to notice the unusual quiet. His pen paused, and a small blot of ink seeped into the paper.

Still, he didn't look up. His voice was impatient, edged with frost as he asked, "Why are you still standing there? You even gave up on the royal commendation? What more could you possibly want?"

I answered quietly, "I want nothing. I just want to leave."

Elliot finally slammed his pen down into the inkwell.

The memory of the night before returned, sharp and clear.

The Ashfords' hall had been glowing with light and chatter. I was beside Elliot, as usual, performing my duties as the lady of the house.

When the roasted trout was served, I instinctively reached for a portion.

With my fork and knife, I gently separated the tender flesh from the bone, carefully checking every flake for Samuel, our eight-year-old son. I'd done this for years ever since he started eating solid food.

Normally, he'd open his mouth and say in his sweet little voice, "Thank you, Mother."

But last night, he didn't.

He looked up, and his eyes, which were so much like his father's, held a cool, dismissive look that felt far too knowing for a boy his age.

"Mother, you trying so hard to please Father just makes you look like one of those servants in the storybooks," he said, his young voice clear and cutting, carrying across the quieting hall.

The hall went still.

My fingers froze around the fork, a chill spreading to my palms.

Then came the muffled laughter from the Ashford relatives, soft, mocking, and needling into my ears.

Elliot only frowned, as though Samuel had spoken out of turn, but said nothing to correct him.

And Samuel, taking his father's silence as approval, raised his voice again. "Lilian's right," he said. "A woman with no backbone is just pathetic.

"No wonder Grandmother calls you an embarrassment to this family."

Each word struck deep, finding every tender place within me.

I stared at the son I had carried for nine months and loved for eight years. He looked back at me with that familiar face, those familiar eyes, and spoke the cruelest words I had ever heard.

In that moment, my heart shattered completely.

The mask of virtue I'd kept up for eight years came crashing down all at once.