On our fifth anniversary, I hid a pregnancy test in my clutch. Two pink lines. Our miracle. My husband walked in forty minutes late. He didn't kiss me. He didn't sit down. He slid a folder across the white tablecloth. Divorce papers. "Vivienne is back," Callum said. "Sign them." For a second, the private dining room tilted. The candles. The roses I'd ordered. The cake behind me that said Happy 5 Years in gold icing. I had planned every detail. He hadn't even taken off his coat. "Callum." My voice came out small. "It's our anniversary." "It's the end of a contract." He checked his watch. "Grandmother's will required me to be married by thirty to inherit. I was. I did. Now it's done." Five years. Five years of being Mrs. Ashford behind closed doors and "the in-house designer" everywhere else. Five years of galas where I stood near the staff exit while he shook hands in the center of the room. Five years of him coming home late, falling into my bed, and leaving before sunrise. I told myself it was love. Just quiet love. "You said you'd never let me go," I whispered. "I said a lot of things." He finally looked at me. Gray eyes. Cold as January. "You knew what this was, Wren." I did. I just thought he'd changed his mind somewhere along the way. My fingers found the clasp of my clutch. The test was right there. Tell him. Tell him now. Maybe everything changes. "Callum, I have something to tell you—" His phone lit up on the table. VIV. With a little heart beside it. He answered before the second ring. And his voice—God, his voice—went soft. Softer than he'd ever spoken to me. "Hey, sweetheart. No, I'm leaving now. Ten minutes." He hung up. Stood. "One more thing." He buttoned his coat. "Vivienne wants a Wren Hale gown for the wedding. You'll design it." I stared at him. "You want your wife to design your next wife's wedding dress?" "Ex-wife." He tapped the papers. "And your contract with Ashford Luxe runs thirty more days. Break it, and you'll never work in this city again. Remember who pays for your mother's care facility." There it was. The leash he'd been holding for five years. "She was never your mistress," I said slowly. "Was she? I was." "No." He paused at the door. "You were the placeholder." The door closed. I sat alone with a cake I'd paid for, in a restaurant he'd picked because nobody would see us. The waiter came in, saw my face, and quietly left again. I didn't cry. Not there. I carried the cake home myself. The penthouse was dark. Half his closet was empty. The watch I gave him for his birthday was gone. So was the photo from our courthouse wedding—the only one that existed. He'd been moving out for days. I just hadn't noticed. At midnight, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. A photo: Callum asleep in a hotel bed. A woman's hand, manicured perfectly, resting on his bare chest. A diamond on her finger. The message underneath: He only married you because I said no. Thanks for keeping him warm. — V I stared at it until my eyes burned. Then I went into the bathroom, sat on the cold marble floor, and held the pregnancy test against my heart. "It's okay," I whispered to the tiny life inside me. "It's just you and me now." He'll never know, I decided. He chose her. He doesn't get to choose you. I picked up my phone and called Paris. It was six in the morning there, but she answered on the first ring. "Madame Celeste. Is your offer still open?" A long silence. Then: "Oh, ma chérie. What did he do?" "Thirty days," I said. "I need thirty days to finish one dress. Then I need to disappear." "Then you'll disappear." I hung up. My phone buzzed again. Callum: Tomorrow. 9 AM. Vivienne's first fitting. Don't embarrass me. I typed back two words. Yes, sir. Just like the help.