Chapter 2

I had just numbly let myself into the penthouse when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

A text from my mother, Soraya.

[Did Draven lose his mind? Has he stopped crying over the baby yet?]

I stared at the screen, my reflection ghosted in the dark glass. I pulled in a shaky breath, swallowing down the acid in my throat, and typed back with mechanical precision.

[Haven't told him. Just walked into his flat.]

Almost immediately, the front door clicked open again.

Draven walked in.

When our eyes met, he froze. For two agonizing seconds, sheer panic flashed across his face. Then, the smooth mask slid back into place.

"You should have told me you were flying in," he said, perfectly composed. "I would've sent the driver to Heathrow."

"I wanted to surprise you," I said flatly.

He crossed the foyer, chuckling as he pressed a kiss into my wet hair.

"Well, I hate it. You shouldn't be flying commercial or dealing with jet lag just for my birthday."

He opened his mouth to say something else, but his phone buzzed.

As he looked down, his features softened into that familiar, indulgent patience—the exact expression that used to be solely mine.

Then he looked up, wearing a practiced grimace.

"Damn it. I've got a late dinner with the board tonight. I have to leave you here, baby."

Without waiting for an answer, he walked straight to the hall closet and pulled out a cream cashmere scarf.

It hit me then. He hadn't come back for me. He had come up to grab the personal item that girl had left behind.

I looked around the penthouse.

When Draven was first assigned to the London division, I had taken a week off, sacrificing a massive contract in New York, just to make this cold corporate space feel like a home.

Now, the vintage Murano vase I had hand-carried across the Atlantic was gone. The polaroid photo of us on the Sub-Zero fridge? Erased. The entire flat had been meticulously sterilized of my existence.

The cold from my rain-soaked coat seeped straight into my bones.

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the door.

"Are you mad?" Draven chased after me, catching my shoulder.

"The penthouse hasn't been cleaned this week anyway. Let me book you a suite at Claridge's. I swear on my life, I'll clear my entire schedule for you tomorrow. Okay?"

Like always, he leaned in to kiss me.

A sharp rush of citrus and amber flooded my senses.

It wasn't his cologne. It was her perfume.

I turned my face away.

Draven didn't notice, or didn't care. He was already checking his watch, too eager to get back down to the Bentley. He rushed out.

I followed slowly, dragging my suitcase into the corridor.

By the elevators, a neighbor leaned against the wall—a classic trust-fund elite holding a glass of Scotch. His eyes drifted over me, sticky and amused.

"What's your rate, sweetheart? If Rook's too busy, I'll pay double."

I ignored him, hitting the elevator button.

"He's got a live-in girlfriend, you know," the guy slurred, stepping closer.

"Don't know why you're trying your luck. Everyone in the building's seen them. Guy treats her like absolute royalty. Carries her from the underground garage straight into the lift so she doesn't ruin her heels. Girl always looks like she won the lottery."

He grabbed my waist, leaning in with his liquor-soaked breath.

Pure survival instinct kicked in. I brought my heel down on his feet as hard as I could.

He howled, doubling over. I didn't wait. I hauled my suitcase into the emergency stairwell and ran.

I tripped on the landing, scraping my knee raw against the concrete, but I didn't dare stop. I just got up and kept running.

By the time I reached the Heathrow VIP lounge, I was entirely numb.

Staring at the rain lashing against the tarmac, I couldn't make sense of it. Why again?

For the first two years of our marriage, the PTSD had been crippling. I would wake up screaming, trapped in the nightmare of Draven naked, tangled in those hotel sheets with the girl.

And Draven would hold me through the night, murmuring apologies into my skin.

He changed every passcode on his devices to my birthday. He flaunted our marriage at every corporate gala, every press release. Whenever he traveled, the video call stayed open all night so I could watch him sleep.

We had spent eight agonizing years rebuilding the shattered glass of my trust.

When did it become a stage play? When did the lie restart?

The girl's name echoed in my head. Trina.

I pulled out my phone and opened Instagram. It didn't take an investigation. Within sixty seconds, I found Trina Veyra.

I didn't even need to scroll through her feed for proof. Her profile picture told me everything I needed to know.

She was sitting, legs crossed, on the edge of Draven's custom desk back at Rook Enterprises in Manhattan.