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I hummed softly as I rummaged through the stacks of papers on Ryan's mahogany desk. The utility bill had to be somewhere—I'd promised to handle it before the weekend. Three years together, and this was our routine: I managed our household while he built his empire. Perfect, balanced, loving. My fingers brushed against a manila folder tucked beneath a leather portfolio. Not where bills would be, but something about its placement—slightly hidden, deliberately casual—caught my attention. I pulled it out, expecting investment documents or property deeds. "Matthews–Chen Divorce" was printed in bold black letters across the tab. My hand froze. Matthews was Ryan's surname. Chen... Isabella's surname. "That can't be right," I whispered to the empty study. I opened the folder with trembling fingers. Legal language swam before my eyes, but certain phrases stood out with terrible clarity: "dissolution of marriage," "irreconcilable differences," and worst of all, two signatures I recognized instantly. Ryan Matthews. Isabella Chen. The room tilted. I sank to the plush carpet, folder clutched to my chest, as my reality cracked and splintered around me. Isabella wasn't Ryan's cousin. She was his ex-wife. Every tender moment I'd spent with her—holding her