Chapter 1

The day I married into the Anderson family, Ronnie Anderson tossed two cards on the table in front of the entire family.

One was a bank card, and the other was a room key card.

He said, "One million dollars will be deposited into this card every month. Ask for more if it runs short.

"The house is yours, in Belleview Gardens. Live there if you want; if not, do whatever you like with it."

Ronnie leaned back against the sofa, his tie hanging loosely around the collar of his shirt, his voice lazy as if he were discussing the most mundane business deal.

He said, "I only have one requirement: we each live our own lives, don't end up on the gossip rags, and don't have any love children."

I was still in my floor-length wedding dress, my veil still in place. The makeup artist had done my makeup so flawlessly that I looked like a porcelain doll.

I stood in the middle of the living room at the Andersons' place, the chandelier stinging my eyes.

A row of the Andersons sat across from me, each with a quiet, observant look on their faces.

My parents didn't come. They had never approved of this marriage in the first place. I was the one who had insisted on marrying him.

No, to be precise, I had no choice but to marry him.

The Mays family had gone bankrupt, and my father had racked up a mountain of debt. It was the Anderson family who had stepped in to bail him out.

I was the price he paid for that help. My name was Emery Mays, twenty-four, and I had graduated from Millfield University less than six months prior.

I hadn't even had time to frame my diploma before I was married off to the Anderson family.

I picked up the bank card, glanced at it, then set it back down.

I said, "Mr. Anderson, I agree to us living our own lives. But when you do your thing, could you at least keep it low-key?

"I don't want to see headlines like 'Mrs. Anderson stuck at home all by herself' on the trending lists tomorrow."

Ronnie glanced at me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. It was subtle, but I could tell he thought I was kind of interesting.

He said, "Don't worry, I dread being in the social media spotlight even more than you do."

That was the entirety of our conversation on our wedding night.

And then he walked out.

Yep, on our wedding night, he changed out of his suit and left. The driver was waiting outside.

I stood at the second-floor window, watching him slide into that black Maybach. The car rolled out of the gates, its taillights dragging two red lines through the darkness.

So there I was, standing alone by the window in my wedding dress and ring, watching my brand-new husband's car vanish around the corner.

Downstairs, the party was still in full swing, the muffled sounds of celebration drifting up through the floorboards.

I glanced at the diamond ring on my finger. It was so big, and it practically blinded me under the lights.

It felt heavy.

I slipped it off, left it on the nightstand, and started wiping away my makeup.

In the three years that followed, Ronnie and I lived with a tacit understanding.

He had his own life, and I had mine. Everyone in our social circle knew he had a few regular companions, but no one dared to talk about it openly.

I kept myself busy too. I picked up what I had studied back in Millfield City, opened my own PR firm, and built it from nothing into a well-known name in the industry in two years.

We lived under the same roof, but we hardly ever saw each other. The Andersons' place was so massive that we could go days without running into one another.

Ronnie slept in the master bedroom. I took the guest room. If we happened to bump into each other in the hallway, we'd nod, as polite as strangers sharing a house.

The only time things ever got a little out of bounds between us was that first winter after we got married.

I'd had a bit to drink that night and got home late. I lost my balance while taking off my shoes in the entryway and stumbled forward.

Ronnie happened to be walking by and reached out to catch me.

His hand was cool, but his hold on my waist was strong.

I looked up at him, and he looked down at me. The hallway lights were motion activated, and when neither of us moved, they went out.

His breath fanned my face in the dark, scented with a faint trace of cedar cologne.

Ronnie said, his voice deeper than usual, "Emery, did you drink a bit too much?"

"Yeah," I said. "Friends from college threw a party. I had a bit more than I planned."

And then he kissed me.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It even carried a hint of frustration. He pressed me against the entryway wall, one hand cupping the back of my head, and kissed me hard.

I didn't push him away, but I didn't kiss him back either. I just let it happen, my thoughts all over the place.

After a few seconds, Ronnie let go of me.

The lights flicked back on.

He stepped back, his expression already back to its usual cool detachment, as if nothing had happened.

Ronnie reached up and straightened the collar of his shirt and said something I would remember for a long time. "Don't drink so much next time."

Then he headed upstairs.

I leaned against the wall, my heart racing, his kiss still burning on my lips.