Chapter 2

The house reeked of champagne roses.

I used to find this scent romantic. Now, it hit me like the sickly-sweet smell of rotting fruit.

I walked into the kitchen. Grant was standing by the stove.

He wore the navy-blue apron I had bought him for Christmas.

The soft, warm light cast a golden glow over his sharp jawline. He looked like the perfect, devoted husband.

"Fifteen years," he murmured, turning off the burner.

He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist.

His eyes held that deep, drowning affection. It was the same affection I had fallen for a decade ago.

"Marrying you is still the best decision I’ve ever made, Mara."

Every cell in my body screamed at me to claw his eyes out.

I wanted to scream Paige Sutton’s name in his face. I wanted to watch his perfect mask shatter.

Instead, I forced my facial muscles into a flawless, practiced smile.

I let my hands rest lightly on his chest. I felt the steady, calm rhythm of his heartbeat.

It was terrifyingly ironic. This heart beat so steadily while entirely filled with betrayal.

"Dinner smells wonderful," I lied. My voice was steady.

We ate his perfectly cooked steak. Then, Grant slid a sleek velvet box across the mahogany table.

"For you," he said softly.

I popped the lid. A blinding diamond necklace rested inside. It glinted coldly under the chandelier.

"I know how much you love this designer," he boasted."I had to pull a few strings to get it custom-ordered just in time."

I stared at the diamonds. But my mind flashed back to a week ago.

Paige Sutton had posted a selfie on Instagram. A necklace from this exact same collection rested against her collarbone.

Hers featured a sapphire center. Mine was plain diamond.

He hadn't pulled strings. He had simply walked into the boutique and bought his "true love" gifts in bulk.

He bought one for the wife he legally married. He bought one for the wife who funded his life.

"Do you like it?" he asked. He was already reaching across the table to take it out of the box. "Let me put it on you."

His fingers brushed my skin. A violent shudder ran down my spine.

I quickly stepped back. I snapped the velvet box shut. It closed so hard it echoed in the dining room.

His hands froze in mid-air. "Mara?"

"My skin has been incredibly sensitive lately," I said smoothly. I offered a tight smile.

"I don't want to tarnish it. It’s beautiful, Grant. I’ll save it for the party."

He frowned. He was clearly annoyed that I rejected his grand romantic gesture.

But his ego quickly brushed it off. He unbuttoned his cuffs and picked up his wine glass.

"Suit yourself," he sighed. "Oh, by the way. My mother’s quarterly fees for the luxury retirement community are due tomorrow."

"They’re raising the rate again. She added the private massage therapist to her package. Just handle the transfer like usual, will you?"

He asked me to drop fifteen thousand dollars on his mother. He said it as if he were asking me to pass the salt.

For eleven years, I had been his unpaid accountant. I was his mother’s personal concierge. I was the silent investor of his lifestyle.

He was sitting in my house. He was drinking wine bought with my money. He was asking me to fund his mother's spa days.

He did all this while legally married to another woman.

The sheer, unadulterated audacity of it didn't make me want to cry. It made me want to destroy him.

"Don't worry, Grant," My voice was eerily calm. "I’ll handle your mother’s account exactly as it deserves to be handled."

He smiled. He completely missed the ice in my words. "Thanks, sweetheart."

That night, we lay in the same bed. I lay wide awake in the dark. I listened to the rhythmic, peaceful sound of Grant’s breathing.

I waited until I was certain he was in a deep sleep. Then, I slipped out from under the silk sheets. I walked into my study.

I opened the heavy oak drawer. I pulled out a thick, empty manila envelope.

Then, I went to my hidden wall safe. With a sharp click, I withdrew the deed to this multi-million-dollar estate.

It was a property entirely in my name. I inherited it from my father.

I slid it into the envelope. This was document number one.

Then, I opened my laptop. The screen cast a pale, blue light over my face. The rest of the room was dark.

Grant thought he had trapped me into being his free, oblivious caretaker. He thought the secret divorce guaranteed this.

But he forgot one thing. The woman who managed all the money also had the power to turn off the tap.

My fingers flew across the keyboard. I logged into my private banking portal.

I navigated to Sylvia Holloway’s premium care account. Status: Active. Auto-pay: Enabled.

I didn't hesitate.

With one satisfying click, I terminated the payment.

Then, I went a step further. I completely revoked Grant’s secondary access to my credit card. This card was linked to my trust fund.

A green checkmark appeared on the screen. Transaction Cancelled. Access Denied.

I closed the laptop. I looked toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom.

Sleep well, Grant, I thought. A cold, genuine smile finally touched my lips.

Enjoy your last peaceful night. Tomorrow, the starvation begins.