Chapter 2

The house felt like a tomb as I moved through it that night, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. Daniel's breathing had deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, but I waited another hour just to be certain. The message I'd seen that morning haunted me with every passing minute: *Only Victoria deserves to bear his children. The Mitchell girl was just collateral damage.*

I slipped out of bed at 2 AM, my heart hammering so loudly I feared it might wake him. Daniel's office remained the one sanctuary in our home that was truly his—a space I respected without question. Until tonight.

The door was locked, as always, but I'd watched him enter the code countless times from the corner of my eye: his birthdate, followed by what I'd always assumed was his mother's. My fingers trembled as I punched in the numbers, and when the lock clicked open, I nearly lost my nerve.

*What if you're wrong?* a voice whispered in my head. *What if there's an explanation?*

But the coffee had long gone cold in my stomach, replaced by a sickening certainty that my perfect marriage was built on something rotting underneath.

Daniel's office was immaculate—leather-bound books arranged by height, awards displayed with precision, not a paper out of place. His laptop sat centered on the mahogany desk. I powered it on, praying the startup sound wouldn't carry down the hall.

Password protected, of course. I tried our anniversary date. Access denied. His birthday. Denied again. With trembling fingers, I typed in the date of my accident.

The screen unlocked.

My breath caught in my throat. That couldn't be coincidence.

I plugged in the flash drive I'd hidden in my robe pocket and began searching through his files. Most were business documents—contracts, proposals, spreadsheets of numbers that meant nothing to me. But then I found a folder simply labeled "V."

Photographs filled the screen—dozens of them. Daniel with a stunning woman, her dark hair gleaming, her smile confident and knowing. Victoria. It had to be. In some photos they were dressed formally, at galas or charity events. In others, they were casual, intimate—her head on his shoulder at a beach, his lips pressed to her temple in what looked like a kitchen.

The timestamps made my blood run cold. Some dated years before my accident, but many were from after—during our marriage.

At the end of the folder was a single PDF document. I opened it with numb fingers: a birth certificate. Baby boy Cross, born to Daniel Cross and Victoria Sterling, dead three days later from complications.

The room tilted around me. Victoria Sterling. The woman in the photos. The woman Daniel had truly wanted to bear his children.

I copied everything to my flash drive, shut down the computer exactly as I'd found it, and slipped back to our bedroom. Daniel hadn't moved. I lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of his body next to mine—this stranger I had married.

---

"Ms. Mitchell? Ms. Vance will see you now."

I clutched my purse tighter, the flash drive burning a hole in its inner pocket as I followed the receptionist through Eleanor Vance's sleek Midtown law office. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying view of Manhattan—a city that suddenly felt alien to me.

"Mrs. Cross," Eleanor corrected as I entered, her sharp eyes taking my measure. "Or do you prefer Mitchell?"

"Mitchell," I said firmly, surprising myself. "Sarah Mitchell."

She gestured to a chair across from her glass desk. "What can I do for you, Ms. Mitchell?"

My carefully rehearsed speech evaporated. "I need to know my options if I want to divorce Daniel Cross."

Eleanor's expression didn't change, but she leaned forward slightly. "I see. And does Mr. Cross know you're here?"

"No. And he can't."

She nodded once, then laid out the brutal truth: Daniel's wealth, his connections, the prenuptial agreement I'd signed without reading closely enough. The legal labyrinth designed to keep me exactly where I was.

"He's very powerful," she said finally. "And from what you're telling me, very dangerous. If what you suspect is true—that he orchestrated your accident—you'll need more than suspicions. You'll need proof."

"I'm working on that," I whispered.

---

The Hamptons charity gala glittered with wealth and privilege. I smoothed down my cream sheath dress—modest compared to the designer gowns surrounding me, but the best I could manage without raising Daniel's suspicions about my attendance.

"Sarah! How lovely you could make it." Victoria Sterling materialized before me, resplendent in midnight blue that made her pale skin glow. She was even more beautiful in person than in the photographs—tall, elegant, with knowing eyes that seemed to strip away my pretenses.

"I'm so glad Margaret convinced you to come," she continued, her smile never reaching her eyes. "That dress is... quaint. So brave of you to wear something so simple to an event like this."

Before I could respond, a waiter passing with champagne flutes "stumbled," sending golden liquid cascading down the front of my dress. The cold shock of it made me gasp.

"Oh dear," Victoria said, not bothering to hide her smile. "What a terrible accident."

The word 'accident' hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I wondered if she knew—if she knew everything.