Chapter 1

My husband had four security guards hold me down in front of a dozen executives, and then his own vice president slapped me twelve times. She finally stopped crying, and he finally cooled down.

The next day, he showed up with an armload of apology gifts, and a shareholder slammed the table. "Your wife just froze every core patent Dalton owns, three production lines are down, and you're still out here smoothing things over?"

*****

"She asked for those twelve slaps. She shouldn't have embarrassed Sylvia in front of everyone. It's done, let's move on and nobody mention it again."

When James Dalton finished speaking, no one in the top-floor conference room of Dalton Pharmaceuticals dared to move.

Sylvia Lane stood behind him, one hand still covering her cheek, as if she'd suffered the greatest injustice. Her eyes were red as she stared at the scattered papers on the floor, her lips trembling, but she couldn't say a word.

Four security guards had already taken their positions on either side of me.

No one asked why.

My face was burning, my left ear was ringing, and there was a salty taste in my mouth. I didn't lower my head, and I didn't look at Sylvia. I kept my eyes on James.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked, and my voice stayed level.

James answered without hesitating, "Vivian Wynn, you went too far today."

The first slap came from Sylvia herself.

Her hand was shaking as she walked up to me, but when she slapped me, it was quick and clean.

The security guards grabbed both my arms, so I couldn't move at all.

By the fifth slap, someone in the back sucked in a breath, but quickly swallowed it down.

By the eighth slap, Sylvia paused for a second and whispered to James, "Let's just stop. I don't want to make a scene."

James didn't answer. He only gave her a look.

She raised her hand again.

By the twelfth slap, I couldn't feel a thing on my face anymore.

The security guards let go, and I swayed for a moment before steadying myself.

The brown paper bag I'd brought in had gotten knocked to the floor in all the chaos, landing by the leg of the chair.

I bent down to pick it up, didn't open it, and gently set it back on the table.

"Fine." My voice was calm, almost emotionless.

I added, "From now on, Dalton's business is none of my concern."

Nobody in that room took it seriously.

Only Michael Ford, the CFO sitting at the far end of the table, went white.

*****

When I got home, the housekeeper, Mary Johnson, opened the door and almost dropped her cup.

She stared at my face, her mouth opened as if to say something, but she held back.

I went straight to the bathroom and rinsed my face with cold water. In the mirror, my left cheek was puffy, and the split at my lip had stopped bleeding.

I changed into fresh clothes, sat down at the table, and picked up my phone to send three messages.

The first went to Rachel Sutton, my attorney. I sent: [Start as planned.]

The second went to my assistant: [Put every pending deal under my name on hold.]

After the third message went out, I turned the phone face down on the table and left it there.

Mary stood in the doorway for a while, then quietly asked whether I wanted something for my face.

I shook my head and said I'd deal with it tomorrow.

She hesitated for a few seconds, didn't ask any more questions, and walked away.

Back at his office, James was in a noticeably better mood.

Sylvia followed him in with her head down and said she shouldn't have acted on impulse and especially shouldn't have put him on the spot in front of the executives. She even offered to resign so that I wouldn't be uncomfortable.

She knew exactly what to say to hit the right nerve.

James relaxed a little and reassured her, "It's not that serious."

The way he saw it, the whole thing was on me. Sylvia had been his VP for four years, careful, never out of line.

I had walked into the conference room, thrown her files on the floor in front of everyone, and pushed her about a gap in the process. Anybody would have read that as picking a fight.

He had already decided he would say a few nice things that night and let the whole thing go.

But when he pushed open the front door, the living room was empty.

My shoes were gone, a few spots in the closet were empty, and my wedding ring was sitting neatly next to its box on the dresser.

Beside it was a note with just two lines.

[You don't have to put up with me anymore.]

James stared at it for a few seconds. His first thought was that I was just sulking.

He tossed the note back on the table and was just about to call me when his phone rang.

"Mr. Dalton, the meeting with Brightwell Corp. tomorrow morning has been canceled. They said they need to wait for internal confirmation."

He frowned. "Wait for what confirmation?"

The person on the other end was vague and only said they were still looking into it.

Then the second call came in right after.

"Mr. Dalton, the supplementary signing on the Metro Bank credit line has been delayed. The bank says the process is on hold."

Before he could even hang up, the third call came in.

"Mr. Dalton, the supplier pushed today's reconciliation. They want to verify a specific authorization first."

Three calls from three directions, and all of them hit the same week.

James set his phone down and just sat there on the couch, not moving.

His first thought was that the scene in the conference room had leaked and people were laughing at him. Then he realized Dalton was too big for three major partners to pull back over a domestic argument.

He was about to send someone to look into it when Michael called.

Michael sounded off right from the start. "Mr. Dalton, can you get in touch with Ms. Wynn right now?"

James stopped. Michael had always called me "Mrs. Dalton," and that was the first time he had come close to using something else.

"Why would I need to contact her?" James asked.

Michael paused. "A few renewals are stuck, and we need to confirm her arrangements."

James' annoyance spiked. "Since when does she get a say in Dalton's affairs?"

Michael was silent for a couple of seconds. "Understood, Mr. Dalton."

After the call ended, the living room was eerily quiet.

James stood up and walked to the dining room, where he saw a brown paper bag sitting on top of the trash.

It was the same brown paper bag I'd placed on the conference room table that afternoon. No one had bothered to touch it.

He gave it a look, but didn't bother to reach for it.