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On our third wedding anniversary, I found a property contract on my husband Gavin Shaw's desk. It was a deed for a 2.5-million-dollar luxury apartment facing the river. The owner was Zoe Olsen. My hands trembled as I held it. "What is this?" I asked. The office door opened. Zoe walked in, smiling triumphantly, while Gavin fussed over her with concern. "She's pregnant, isn't she?" My voice was ice. Silence filled the room. I walked out, called my mother, and said calmly, "Mom, find me the best divorce lawyer in Holbridge. I'm done with Gavin." A few months later, I became the company's new chairwoman. Outside my floor-to-ceiling window, Gavin stood downstairs, blocked by security— roses in hand, eyes full of regret, begging for just one more chance to see me.