Chapter 2

The villa sat in complete darkness. I hadn't bothered turning on the lights.

For three years, no matter how late James came home, I had always left the entryway light on and warmed a glass of milk for him.

Tonight, I hadn't.

I curled up on the sofa and stared at the moonlight streaming through the windows. The scene played out like a silent film in my head.

I could imagine Olivia's fate—the restaurant holding her for a full day and night until James finally sent someone to pay her tab. She must have been utterly humiliated.

Around midnight, I heard the soft click of the door lock.

James came home reeking of bourbon and cologne. The combination made my nose wrinkle.

He fumbled for the light switch. When the room flooded with brightness, and he saw me sitting there in the dark, he stopped short.

He walked closer and said, "Emily? Why are you sitting here in the dark? You startled me."

He moved toward me. His tall frame cast an oppressive shadow. He obviously knew what had happened at the restaurant, but his face showed no hint of remorse.

He leaned down until his face hovered inches from mine. His alcohol-soaked breath washed over me and made my stomach turn.

Then he did something from our early days together, back when we were wildly in love.

He reached out and tapped the tip of my nose with his finger. The gesture had once been tender.

His voice carried the slur of alcohol and that careless arrogance he wore so well.

"Come on now," he said, "you're a grown woman. Why are you getting worked up over Olivia? She's just young and naive. You can't seriously be mad at her."

My body went rigid.

The cold touch of his fingertips and the casual contempt in his words pierced through me like a poisoned blade, shattering the last protective shell I had built around myself.

I lifted my gaze to him under the bright lights, truly seeing this man for the first time.

The handsome features, the straight nose, everything that had once made my heart race now felt suffocating in its unfamiliarity.

Young? Naive?

So, using my credit card, destroying my reputation, openly disrespecting me as his wife, counted as nothing more than being "naive" in his eyes? And my attempt to preserve even a shred of dignity made me petty?

My heart plunged into a frozen abyss, cracking apart inch by inch.

"The card thing isn't a big deal," he continued, as if placating an unreasonable child. "I'll have her pick up a gift tomorrow and come apologize to you in person. Then we can put this whole thing behind us, okay?"

He thought he was solving the problem. He thought he was throwing me a lifeline.

Ridiculous.

He had no idea what the real problem was. Or perhaps he did know, but simply didn't care.

In his mind, Olivia and I were no different. A wife he kept at home to bear his children, and a mistress he kept outside to boost his image. My dignity, my feelings meant nothing to him.

That careless flick against my nose shattered three years of marriage, obliterated the last fragment of hope I had clung to.

I looked at him, and something shifted inside me. A laugh escaped my lips.

It was quiet and cold.

"James," I said, my voice so calm it startled even me. "Let's get a divorce."

The smile froze on his face instantly, and the alcohol's haze lifted from his mind. He frowned, as though he had just heard the most absurd joke imaginable.

James scoffed at me. "Emily, what kind of tantrum are you throwing now? Over something this trivial?"

"This isn't trivial." I rose to my feet and met his gaze directly, enunciating each word with crystal clarity. "This is about dignity. If you can't give it to me, I'll claim it for myself."

"You—" Something in my expression seemed to strike him silent. He stood there, at a loss for words.

I had no desire to waste another syllable on him.

I brushed past him and climbed the stairs to his study, retrieving the document I had prepared long ago but never found the courage to produce. A divorce papers.