Chapter 1
My husband Zane Graves's assistant sent me a photo.
She was wearing my silk pajamas, standing in the kitchen of my new house. In her hand was the custom-made matching mug Zane and I had made for our wedding.
The message read: [Vivian, Mr. Graves said you hardly ever come home, and it's a shame to let this kitchen go to waste. He said I could start treating this place like my own home.]
I stared at the silk pajamas for a few seconds.
Then I smiled.
With a few taps, I forwarded the photo, the voice messages, and screenshots of our chat straight to the company's management group chat.
I wrote: [Congratulations to Melissa on moving into the house Zane bought for his wife before the handover was even finished.]
Then I hit send and shut off my phone without the slightest hesitation.
The living room fell silent.
Beyond the window, the city lights of Riverton burned through the night, lined up like a crowd silently watching the whole thing unfold.
Today was my seventh wedding anniversary with Zane.
On the dining table were two plates of pasta I had made.
He had texted me this afternoon, saying an unexpected client meeting had come up and telling me not to wait for him.
It turned out the "client" was wearing my pajamas, and apparently, the meeting had taken place in my own kitchen.
I got to my feet and walked toward the entryway.
There, on the third shelf of the shoe rack, sat a pair of pink slippers.
They weren't mine.
I picked them up. The soles were brand new, marked only by a few damp spots from the kitchen floor.
It seemed that Melissa Dawson, Zane's assistant, had been here more than once.
The fact that she dared send me that photo meant she'd already started treating this place like something she'd won.
I tossed the slippers into the trash.
One of my robes was gone from the closet, and there was a new bottle of overly sweet body wash sitting in the bathroom.
On the fridge, there was a sticky note. It read: [Mr. Graves, I want oatmeal for breakfast tomorrow. Melissa.]
Her handwriting was cute and bubbly, the kind that reminded me of a cat making itself comfortable on someone else's bed as if it belonged there.
I tore off the sticky note and slipped it into my folder.
Then I opened the safe. Inside were copies of the house deed, my prenuptial property records, the company's original partnership agreement, and a thick stack of branding proposals I'd signed over the years.
Zane used to say I kept far too much old stuff.
He said that we'd already survived the hard times, so there was no reason to keep looking back.
Now I finally understood. It wasn't the old things that bothered him. He was afraid that one day, they would become proof of how much he owed me.
I packed the documents into my suitcase.
My phone was off, and for the moment, the rest of the world had gone silent, too.
*****
At three in the morning, the movers I had hired arrived.
The guy looked around at all the packed boxes and asked, "Ma'am, is this a move or a breakup?"
"Just clearing the place out," I replied.
He paused for a moment, then wisely left it at that.
As the last box was being carried out, I glanced back at the house.
The kitchen light was still on. That was where Melissa took her photo.
I walked over and took the matching mugs out of the cabinet. One had Zane's name on it, and the other had mine.
I dropped his mug into the trash.
The mug hit the can and broke into pieces with one sharp crack.
The one with my name stayed with me.
Zane probably thought I'd confront him, make a scene, cry my eyes out, and beg him to explain himself.
What he forgot was that this house was mine long before it ever felt like his. And I was the one who printed the company's very first marketing poster.
When he brought Melissa home, he probably never imagined that some doors, once opened, could never truly be closed again.
*****
Two days later, I turned my phone back on.
The moment the screen lit up, the phone began vibrating nonstop, as if it had been desperate to catch up for the past two days.
There were over a hundred missed calls. More than half were from Zane, and my mother-in-law, Mandy, had called over a dozen times.
Melissa had called three times.
The rest came from company executives, people on the branding team, and a few vendors who had never called me before.
I muted every notification before calmly making myself breakfast.
My new apartment wasn't big, and there were still unpacked boxes sitting by the window.
Only after I finished breakfast and washed the dishes did I open the company's executive group chat.
The chat had been blowing up for two days. The photo I'd posted had ripped through everyone's carefully maintained composure.
Riley, the manager of the Administration Department, sent a question mark, then thought better of it and deleted it.
People started gossiping.
[Wait, is this Mr. Graves's house?]
[Why is Melissa wearing Mrs. Graves's pajamas?]
[Her home? What's that supposed to mean?]
[Did Mrs. Graves get hacked or something?]
[Who'd dare hack her account and post something like that?]
About half an hour later, Melissa finally showed up to explain herself.
She replied with a lengthy message. [First of all, I'm really sorry for bringing personal matters into the work chat.
[Vivian has been incredibly busy with work lately. Mr. Graves was worried no one was taking care of the house, so he asked me to stop by and tidy up the kitchen.
[The pajamas had been left in the guest room after the housekeeper finished the laundry. I accidentally splashed soup on my clothes, so I borrowed some clothes for a little while.
[That whole 'my home' thing? Mr. Graves was joking, and I repeated it without thinking. I didn't expect Vivian to take it this way or post it here.
[I'm freaking out right now. I'm only a personal assistant. I wasn't trying anything.]
She threw in a crying emoji at the end.
Workplaces were always full of people who loved drama. And there were always plenty eager to defend whoever appeared to be the victim.
People started chiming in right away.
[Melissa has always been such a sweet girl. She doesn't strike me as someone who'd do something like this.]
[Is Mrs. Graves overreacting?]
[Mr. Graves has always treated Mrs. Graves so well. Everyone can see that.]
[Either way, this probably wasn't something that belonged in the company chat.]
I read every message without saying a word, my thumb resting against the screen.
Julia from the Brand Department chimed in, [Isn't it way more inappropriate for Melissa to be posing in Mrs. Graves' pajamas for photos?]
The next second, Riley warned her, [Watch what you say. This is a company group.]
Julia shut up.
I remembered her name.
Zane never offered an explanation. He sent only one message. [This discussion ends now. Anyone who continues will be dealt with according to company policy.]
Typical him. He shut everyone up, then acted as if nothing had happened.
I left the group chat and saw Zane's latest message. [Vivian, we'll talk about it after we get home.]
He wasn't sorry or trying to explain himself. He was giving orders.
As I was about to put my phone down, Mandy's call came through.
I picked up.
"Vivian, you finally picked up." Her voice came through the speaker, shrill and annoying. "Have you lost your mind? Why would you post something like that in the company chat? How is Zane supposed to face anyone after this?"