Chapter One

At my birthday party, my husband Sebastian answered his phone and said in French, "I want you so bad I'm going insane. Wait for me at the usual place?"

His back was to me, his voice lowered. "Don't wear anything, just that crotchless red one." A soft chuckle. "Pregnancy makes you tighter, I'm going crazy."

A few French clients nearby exchanged glances, smiling and shaking their heads.

Sebastian said something else I couldn't quite catch. He hung up, turned, and walked back to me as if nothing happened, slipping an arm around my waist. "Getting bored?"

"Your French is pretty fluent," I said.

He paused for half a second, then laughed. "François's daughter is getting married. The old man's nervous, asked me how I proposed back in the day." His fingers traced my side. "I just made up some romantic lines."

I looked into his eyes.

Seven years ago, after my father and my first love, Charles, died, Sebastian caught me as I crumpled at the funeral. He said, "I'll carry the Smith family from now on." I believed him. I handed over what was left of the family business, my father's old associates, and the last shreds of my trust.

Now, his eyes showed tenderness, showed exhaustion—everything but the guilt a cheating man should have worn.

He didn't even know I'd learned French.

Charles taught me. He said, "Zoey, I can't always protect you. You need to understand the truth for yourself." Later, he was killed—a bullet through the back of his head, out his forehead. Sebastian held me outside the ICU and said, "I'll find who did this."

But the killer was never found, and yet I ended up as Mrs. Blackwood.

He brushed his thumb under my eye. "Tired? We'll cut the cake and head home soon."

"Okay," I said.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Layla, the art student I'd sponsored for six years, the girl I'd once thought of as a little sister.

[Zoey, is the party fun? Sebastian just said he'd save a piece of cake for me.]

Attached was a photo: her bedroom nightstand, with the ceramic doll I gave her last year. But at the edge of the frame was a man's wristwatch.

Identical to the one I gave Sebastian for his birthday last year.

I turned off the screen.

I remembered three months ago, in this same villa. I was holding a positive pregnancy test, ready to surprise him, but outside his study door, I heard Layla's tearful voice: "I'm pregnant… Sebastian, what do I do?"

A long silence from Sebastian.

Then he said, "Take some time off work for now. Zoey can't find out."

Layla cried, "You're not going to take responsibility?"

"No." Sebastian's voice turned cold. "Layla, I'll give you a proper place. Our child will be born without issues."

I leaned against the wall, a sharp pain gripping my lower abdomen.

Later, the doctor said I was too stressed, the pregnancy was unstable. I never told Sebastian about the baby, just said I had a stomach bug.

He stayed with me for two days. On the third, he left for a business trip to New York.

In the hidden compartment of his suitcase, I found two hotel reservations for Paris. Under his name and Layla's.

"Time to cut the cake, Mrs. Blackwood," the butler reminded me softly.

I returned to the hall. Sebastian held my hand as we sliced into the cake, cameras flashing. A reporter called out, "Mr. Blackwood, any words for Mrs. Blackwood on your fifth wedding anniversary?"

He kissed my cheek, smiling for the cameras. "For the next five years, and the next, I'll always love her."

Applause erupted.

I smiled along, my nails digging into my palms.

Just moments ago, he was on the phone with his mistress, discussing how she'd wear those crotchless black stockings for their fuck tonight, and now he had the nerve to proclaim he would love me forever?

It was so fucking disgusting it made me sick.

Wives of a few Mafia bosses drifted over. One sighed just loud enough for me to hear. "Zoey these past few years… she's starting to show her age."

"She used to be so radiant. The sole heiress of the Smith family. When William was still alive, everyone called her a prodigy."

"See? Being a housewife really doesn't suit her…"

As the party wound down, Sebastian got pulled into a conversation with some businessmen. I left alone, telling the driver, "To the old riverfront house."

That place had been empty for years. I hadn't been back since my father died.

But tonight, I needed to retrieve something from there—the list of my father's underground contacts, and the key to the Swiss safe-deposit box.

On the way home after getting the items, my phone rang. A courier. "Mrs. Blackwood, there's an urgent delivery for you. Requires your personal signature."

I told the driver to hurry.

The envelope was thin. I tore it open. The first line stabbed into my vision:

Petition for Divorce

I stood under the stark light of the entryway, reading word by word. When I reached "the wife voluntarily waives all marital assets," the wind chimes on the glass door jingled.

Sebastian walked in, his tie hanging loose.

His gaze landed on the papers in my hand. He froze for a second.

Then he walked over slowly. "Zoey, what is this?"