Chapter 1

My husband, Jose Trevino, storms into my company lobby, his secretary, Alivia Mooney, trailing behind like a shadow.

He claims I have embarrassed him. In front of the entire staff, he orders the security guard to slap me four times.

Alivia watches with a thin veil of satisfaction before looping her arm through his. They walk away without looking back.

Later, a notification pings on my phone. He has wired me 400 grand.

The text follows: [One hundred grand per slap. Stop making a scene.]

I don't make a scene.

The next day, when Jose comes to my office to check on me, my desk is empty.

An HR representative speaks with practiced indifference, "Ms. Hayes just started a twelve-day leave for her honeymoon."

Jose dials my number. It goes straight to voicemail.

He tries again. Silence follows because the phone is dead.

On the third attempt, a mechanical voice delivers the verdict, "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

He stands frozen in the middle of the office, the color draining from his face.

*****

Jose Trevino showed up at my office building with Alivia Mooney on his arm.

It was lunchtime, and the lobby was bustling. He was dressed in a bespoke suit, exuding an air of cool, untouchable arrogance. Alivia clung to him like a vine, a triumphant glint in her eye. They looked like a perfectly matched set.

I was just the third wheel.

The receptionist tried to stop them, but a single cold glance from Jose froze her in place. He walked straight up to me. I had just returned from lunch with a coworker, an iced Americano still in my hand.

He used my full name as he said coldly, "Summer Hayes."

I just looked at him and then at Alivia, who was wearing a full face of immaculate makeup, as if she had dressed specifically to declare victory.

"Have you learned your lesson?" Jose asked.

I knew what he was talking about. His mother, Margaret Trevino, held her sixtieth birthday party yesterday. Alivia had attended as his "assistant." During the party, she "accidentally" spilled a full glass of red wine on Margaret's expensive cashmere shawl. Margaret's face had instantly soured.

All I did was hand Margaret a napkin and say, "Be more careful next time, Ms. Mooney. That shawl costs more than your annual salary."

Because of that one sentence, Alivia's eyes had immediately filled with tears as she looked pleadingly at Jose. He hadn't spoken a single word to me for the rest of the night.

Now, here he was, in my office, in front of all my colleagues, to call me to account. The air in the lobby crackled with tension. My colleagues watched with a mix of curiosity, pity, and schadenfreude, their gazes stinging like thorns against my skin.

My hand tightened around my coffee cup. "I did nothing wrong," I said.

The warmth in Jose's eyes vanished. He looked at me as if I were an inanimate object. A cold smile touched his lips. "Very well."

He turned to the head of security. "Teach her a lesson."

The security chief, a man named Mark Ward who was always so polite to me, calling me "Ms. Hayes," looked horrified. "Mr. Trevino..."

"Do you not understand my instructions?" Jose's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable weight.

Sweat beaded on Mark's forehead. He looked at me and then back at Jose. Finally, he squared his shoulders and walked toward me.

The entire lobby was silent. Everyone watched me, the marketing manager, Jose Trevino's lawfully wedded wife, about to be publicly humiliated. Alivia had a smug smile on her face.

I stood perfectly still.

I did not slouch.

The first slap was loud. My head snapped to the side, my cheek burning. The iced coffee slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, splashing dark liquid across my light-colored skirt. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

After the second slap, I tasted blood in my mouth. My ears were ringing.

The third slap followed and then the fourth.

Mark didn't dare hit me again. He stepped back, keeping his head down.

I slowly turned my head back to face Jose. He looked the same as always: cold and distant, as if the person who had just been struck wasn't his wife but a piece of furniture that had been scuffed.

"Now," he asked, "do you know what you did wrong?"

Alivia tightened her grip on his arm, resting her head on his shoulder, as if showing off her prize.

I looked at them, and it suddenly hit me. My three-year marriage was a colossal, absurd joke.

I went back to the house that Jose and I called "home." It was large and empty, devoid of any warmth. Our marriage was exactly the same.

I slumped onto the cold floor, the swelling in my cheek finally turning to a dull numbness. My phone pinged. It was a text from the bank. The money had hit my account.

[Your savings account has been credited with $400,000.00.]

It was followed by a brief text from Jose: [One hundred grand per slap. Stop making a scene.]

I stared at the message for a long time. Then I started to laugh silently, as tears I couldn't control streamed down my face.

Apparently, my dignity was for sale. To him, I was just a product with a fixed price. He used 400 grand to shut me up and keep me in line.

A scene? I hadn't made a scene. All I did was tell the truth.

I wiped my tears and stood up to open the walk-in closet. Half of it was mine, and half was his.

I pulled out my largest suitcase and started packing, taking only the things that were mine. I didn't lay a finger on the jewelry, the designer bags, or the expensive gowns he gave me.

I only took the clothes I had owned before our wedding and a pair of bracelets my mother had left me.

Packing was done. Next came the photos, deleted one after another until my gallery was empty of him. I blocked him on all my social media and deleted his contact information. The last thing left was his number, simply saved as "Jose."

My eyes stayed fixed on the name, a long hesitation keeping my finger suspended in the air. I couldn't bring myself to hit delete just yet.

I navigated to a travel booking site and planned a twelve-day solo trip to a tropical paradise. After choosing the best ocean-view room and a first-class flight, I completed the transaction, using the exact same funds that had recently arrived from his account.

Then I called my assistant. "I need you to file a twelve-day leave request for me. Honeymoon. Email me the form. I'll sign it."

She was surprised. "Ms. Hayes, are you and Mr. Trevino finally taking a honeymoon? Congratulations."

"Yes," I said flatly and hung up.

Next, I texted my lawyer, Cody Day.

[I need you to draw up divorce papers. I'm not asking for anything. I'll walk away with nothing from the marriage.]

He replied almost instantly: [Summer, are you sure?]

I typed back: [I'm sure. Ready to sign whenever.]

After that was all done, I dragged my suitcase out of the prison I had called home for three years and didn't look back.

The airport was a chaotic symphony of noise. I wore sunglasses and a mask, hiding my bruised face. Right before boarding, I took out my phone and looked at Jose's number. After typing a message, I deleted it, letter by letter.

What was there to say? There was nothing left to say.

I just turned the phone off.

As the plane took off, I watched the city shrink below me, and a feeling of unparalleled freedom washed over me.

From now on, I would live for myself.