Chapter 1

For five years, my husband, Ian Jameson, has had a secret ritual. In the dead of night, he slips out of our bed, thinking I am asleep, to look at a photograph.

The woman in the picture isn't me. It's his first love.

I know because I've counted every single time.

Tonight is the hundredth.

And tonight, I finally hit my limit. Tomorrow, I am going to ask for a divorce.

But before I could say a word, he cornered me in my office the next morning. I am a forensic analyst. He needs me to run a new analysis on a ten-year-old cold case.

My findings are clear. "It's a homicide," I tell him, sliding the report across the desk.

When Ian looks at it, his face is stone.

"Change it," he orders. "The official report will read 'death by accident.'"

Rage flares in my chest. I open my mouth to argue, but my eyes snag on the victim's name at the top of the file. My blood runs cold.

The victim is his first love's father.

All the anger drains out of me, replaced by a hollow chill.

I look straight at him. "Ian," I ask, my voice barely a whisper, "who are you covering for?"

*****

Ian Jameson stayed silent, but his silence was all the answer I needed.

I thought back to the faint, prickling sense of unease that had settled over me when he had handed me the case file. It all made sense now.

In the end, he was still obsessed with Susan Sawyer.

For her, he was willing to torch the very principles he had built his career on, the principles we had sworn to uphold together. All the promises we had made were just ashes now.

I always believed that time would be enough to heal his past. God, I was such a fool.

Taking a shaky breath, I tried to anchor myself, staring at the man who was both my husband and a complete stranger.

"Ian," I said. "I want a divorce."

He jerked his head up, gaping at me in disbelief.

"Rachel, what are you talking about?"

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," I shot back, my gaze unwavering.

"But we've been married for five years," he stammered, a confused frown creasing his brow. "We're happy. We love each other. Why all of a sudden?"

Love each other?

A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it.

If I were still the naive girl I was five years ago, his words might have actually worked.

But I wasn't. These five years had taught me one thing: I never really knew him at all.

And the love he gave me? I had no idea how much of it was ever real.

"Ian, were we ever really in love?" I asked again, my eyes locking onto his.

The only answer was a suffocating silence that filled the office. It felt like time itself had stopped.

I gave a dry laugh. At this point, even an explanation would be pointless.

Wordlessly, I gathered my things and walked out of the office.

As a forensic analyst, I'm trained to be detached. It's a job requirement.

But today, standing in the wreckage of my marriage, I couldn't hold it together.

The second the door clicked shut behind me, the tears I had been fighting finally broke free, blurring the world into a watery mess.

I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and drove home.

Then I sat down at my laptop and started drafting the divorce agreement.

That night, Ian didn't come home. I lay alone in our king-sized bed, staring into the darkness, the silence screaming at me. Sweet memories of our past collided with the brutal reality of the present, and I didn't sleep a wink.

The next day, I knew I had to face him. Some things needed to be settled, once and for all. I drove to the university where he taught.

As I approached his office, I saw one of his students pacing nervously outside the door.

"Mrs. Jameson," he stammered when he saw me, his eyes darting away.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach, but I managed a polite nod.

Just as I reached for the doorknob, the student jumped in front of me.

"Mrs. Jameson, have you eaten? I could, uh, take you to lunch?"

His desperate tone confirmed it. Something was wrong.

"No, thank you," I said. "If you have something to say, just spit it out."

"No, it's... I just wanted to thank you for everything you do for us students..."

He trailed off, his eyes flicking nervously toward the office door.

I was done with games. I stepped around him and pushed the door open.

The scene inside froze the air in my lungs.

Ian was there. And he wasn't alone.

I recognized Susan Sawyer instantly from the photograph.

She was even more beautiful in person, with a kind of magnetic energy you couldn't ignore.

Right now, Ian had her backed against his desk, the air between them crackling with tension.

"Ian, what the hell do you want?" Susan snapped. "I'm the one who ended it. What's the point of this? Are you ever going to let it go?"

"Let it go?" Ian shot back. "You think you can just walk away from me? As long as you're breathing, Susan, I'll never let you have a moment's peace."

There was an obsessive glint in his eyes that I had never seen before. It was terrifying.

Flushing with anger, Susan snatched a glass trophy from the desk and hurled it at him.

Ian threw up an arm to block it. The trophy hit his forearm and exploded against the floor with a sickening crash.

My heart seized. That was my first award as a forensic analyst. It meant the world to me.

I remembered standing in this very office, years ago, when my arms wrapped around Ian's neck.

"I'm trusting you with this," I said, smiling. "It's my treasure."

He had held me tight, letting out a warm whisper against my ear. "Don't worry. I'll protect it, just like I protect you."

Now, with his own two hands, he let it all shatter.

He finally saw me standing in the doorway, and a flash of shock crossed his face. "Rachel? What are you doing here?"

Susan, on the other hand, was the picture of cool composure. She glanced from me to Ian and let out a dry laugh, leaning back against the desk, as if she were a spectator at a play.

I fought to keep my voice even, forcing a brittle smile. "Looks like I have terrible timing."

"Rachel, it's not what it looks like," Ian said and rushed toward me, reaching for my hand. "Let me explain."

I pulled my hand away and walked slowly toward the desk.

Then I knelt, my movements stiff, and began picking up the glittering shards of glass, cradling the broken pieces of my past in my hands.

I stood up, turning to lock eyes with Susan, who watched me with a detached curiosity.

"There's nothing to explain," I said quietly. "Whatever is going on between you two... it has nothing to do with me."