Chapter 1
After five years of marriage, Victor was openly keeping a young model as his mistress.
I didn't make a scene.
He pulled out the divorce papers and said, "It's just going through the motions. Once the paperwork for the mistress's kid is done, we'll get back together."
I nodded and signed.
And then I waited for three long years.
Three years later, Victor knocked on my door with the remarriage papers in hand.
But the door was opened by some guy I'd never seen before, cradling my eight-month-old daughter.
*****
The ink on the divorce papers was barely dry when Victor Boyle stubbed out his cigarette.
"Maeve, I'm sorry you had to go through this," Victor said. His voice was low, as if he were soothing a child.
Maeve didn't look up. She stared at the last line of the agreement: [Both parties voluntarily dissolve the marriage.]She thought, 'Voluntarily. What a nice word.'
Outside the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows, the whole city center sparkled at night. Seventy-eight floors up, the wind rattled the glass. This was the place they started their married life.
Three years ago, on their wedding day, Victor had held her hand out on the balcony and said, "The best view in this city is all yours."
Now he was sharing that view with someone else.
"Three years, tops," Victor said, leaning over Maeve's chair, hands braced on the armrests, looking down at her. "Kayla's far along now. I can't let the kid go without a name. Once it's all sorted, we'll get married again right away."
Maeve finally looked up.
Victor was dressed in a custom shirt, the sapphire cufflinks catching the light with a cold gleam. His jaw was tight, and there was a barely noticeable crease between his brows.
He had the look he always wore when he'd already made up his mind but wanted her to think she still had a choice.
Maeve knew that look all too well.
After five years of marriage, everyone in the city knew he was keeping a mistress.
Kayla Johnston was twenty-three, an international car show model with long legs and a sexy figure, and smiled like a spoiled kitten.
Victor had bought her a lakefront villa downtown, gifted her a limited-edition sports car, and never bothered to hide her at any of his parties.
The first year, Maeve had been furious. She'd made scenes, even trashed his office.
But Victor always did the same thing. He'd pull her into his arms and say, "She's just for business."
After a while, Maeve stopped fighting. Not because she believed him, but because she was simply worn out.
"What did you promise me?" Maeve's voice was flat, like she was reciting someone else's script.
Victor paused. "I said—"
"You said you'd only ever love me," Maeve cut him off, her smile barely there. "Isn't that right?"
Victor was silent for a couple of seconds. He straightened up, took a step back, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Maeve, please, don't be like this," he said.
"What's wrong with me?" Maeve shot back.
Victor said, "The way you talk makes me feel guilty."
Maeve nearly burst out laughing.
She thought, 'Guilty?'
He'd been keeping another woman for three years. She was six months pregnant, and now he was talking about feeling guilty?
Victor said, pulling out another document and sliding it over, "I'll transfer that villa to your name. And your monthly allowance stays the same.
"I'll deposit it straight to your card. You won't have to worry about a thing. Three years from now, we'll get married again."
Maeve lowered her head and stared at the property deed in her hands.
It was a standalone villa in the Violet Hill Villa District, with its own garden and pool. It was worth over seven million dollars.
She knew exactly what this was. It was hush money.
Suddenly, Maeve remembered what her mom had told her on her wedding day. "When you marry, you're not marrying a man. You're choosing your fallback for the rest of your life. If you ever run out of options, don't turn against him."
Maeve reached for the pen.
Victor's eyes brightened for a moment.
"Just sign it," he said, his tone gentler now. "Three years will fly by."
The pen touched the paper. Maeve signed it slowly.
Victor finally exhaled, as if a weight had been lifted.
He leaned in to kiss her forehead.
Maeve turned her face aside.
"Don't," Maeve said, standing up and sliding the papers back to him. "You've got her perfume all over you."
Victor's hand hung awkwardly in the air.
Maeve picked up her coat, purse, and phone from the sofa. Her movements were slow and deliberate.
"Have your assistant drop off the villa keys," she said, heading for the entryway to slip on her shoes. "I'm leaving now."
"Maeve—" Victor called out.
"Victor," Maeve said.
She paused at the door and glanced back. The hallway lights were only half on, casting half her face in shadow, making it impossible to read her expression.
"Three years," she said.
"Three years," Victor promised.
Maeve opened the door and stepped out.
As the elevator doors slid shut in front of her, Maeve let herself sink back against the cool elevator wall, head tipped up, eyes closed.
The chill of the metal pressed against her head.
Her fingers trembled. She fished her phone out of her pocket, opened a contact with no name, and sent a message.
Maeve: [I've signed.]
The reply came back instantly. [Tomorrow at 3 pm, Eternal Law Firm, Room 302. I'll be waiting.]
Maeve gripped her phone tightly.
The elevator reached the basement level, the garage. A soft chime sounded.
She opened her eyes.
She was steady now. No sign of the trembling from moments ago.
Maeve stepped out of the elevator, her heels echoing through the empty garage.
'Victor, you want three years? Fine. You'll get your three years,' Maeve thought.