"Seven days, Ivy. Then I'm coming for you." I hung up on Ryder Kane before he could hear me cry. My husband's mistress was in his bed. Her lipstick was on his collar. And there were ninety-nine photos on my phone to prove it. I wiped my face and smiled. For three years, Ryder Kane had asked me the same question every quarter — leave him, marry me, run my empire with me. For three years I'd said no, because I was stupidly, wholly in love with my husband, Damian Vance. Now I scrolled through the ninety-nine photos again. Celeste Monroe's mouth on his throat. Celeste Monroe's legs around his waist. Celeste Monroe wearing his shirt in the penthouse I'd decorated myself, down to the brass drawer pulls. If Damian loved her body that much, he could keep it. I went upstairs and started packing. My phone buzzed. Him. Damian: Pick up three boxes of condoms and drop them at Celeste's place. Strawberry. She likes strawberry. I bit down on my lip until it went white. Two minutes of silence, and he called. His voice was low, impatient, the way he spoke to interns who'd wasted his time. "Do it, Ivy. Celeste doesn't want a baby yet, and I'm not letting her take a pill. Do you have any idea what that stuff does to a woman's body long-term?" Something in my chest cracked clean in half. I hadn't wanted a baby either. Not then. And I remembered — God, I remembered — the way he used to pin my wrists to the headboard and murmur into my ear when I reached for the nightstand drawer. "Come on, Ivy. It doesn't feel the same with one. Just take the morning-after pill in the morning, baby. You'll be fine." I took it eleven times. Eleven times I woke up nauseous and cramping and alone, because he had a board meeting. So pills destroyed a woman's body — unless the woman was me. "Ivy." His voice softened, and I heard it in the background: Celeste, giggling, calling him Dame, and him laughing back. Warm. Indulgent. A tone he hadn't used with me in two years. It felt like a thousand needles going in under my skin at once. "Fine," I said. "Strawberry." I blocked his number. I stared at our wedding portrait hanging over the bed — me in ivory silk, him looking at me like I was the only asset he'd never sell — and I kept packing. Then the video came through. Thirty-nine minutes. No sound at first, then all of it. Her nails down his back. His hands in her hair. Four different positions and my ring light still on the dresser where I'd left it. A voice note landed underneath. "Ivy, sweetie." Celeste, breathless, delighted. "Dame says your chest is basically a boy's. He says being with you was like doing homework. He literally can't stop with me. I'm sorry, but some women just are irresistible, you know?" My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. And still I couldn't stop watching. Because there — on the floor beside the bed, snapped in half — was a platinum cufflink. I'd had it made for our first anniversary. A tiny ivy leaf engraved on the back. He'd put it on with actual tears in his eyes and said, "I'll wear this every day of my life, Ivy. Every single day." Four years. Hundreds of suits. He never wore anything else. Last spring I'd tried to buy him a new set from Milan, and he'd refused. "That one's proof you love me. I'm not replacing it." And now it lay broken on the floor beside her thong. I put the phone face-down. I picked up my passport. "I'm done loving you, Damian Vance," I said out loud, to no one. Seven days. That was all he had left of me. He'd spend the rest of his life on his knees for those seven days — but neither of us knew that yet.