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"Charles, you're fired." Claire Linford, the frosty CEO and my wife's closest friend, slid the termination letter across the desk without looking at me. "And you were never right for Sophia." When I got home, my wife, Sophia Summers, tossed a divorce agreement onto the table. "Get out. There's fifteen grand on the card. We're square." I'd been waiting for this moment for three years. Neither of them had a clue. Finally, freedom. Damn, it felt good. Then one afternoon, a line of Rolls-Royces stopped outside my rundown apartment building. The butler stepped forward and opened the door for me with a practiced bow. "Mr. Drake, it's time to go home." That was when their world finally fell apart.