Chapter 1

I signed my divorce papers on a Monday. By Friday, I was wearing Dominic Blackwell's ring — my ex-husband's boss, his obsession, and the only man Ethan Crawford had ever feared.

Ethan didn't know yet.

But my ex-best friend, the woman he'd been screwing in our bed for the past year — she was about to find out first.

It started three weeks ago.

I came home early from a twelve-hour shift at the hospital to find a pair of red-soled heels by the front door. They weren't mine. I couldn't afford Louboutins — not after Ethan had drained our joint savings to "invest in his career."

The bedroom door was open. Not even closed. That's how little he respected me.

Sienna Park — my best friend since college, the maid of honor at my wedding — was on top of my husband in the bed I'd picked out from IKEA and assembled by myself because Ethan said he'd thrown out his back.

His back seemed perfectly fine now.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I simply stood in the doorway and waited for them to notice me.

It was Sienna who saw me first. She didn't even flinch. She just smiled — that sweet, practiced smile she'd perfected over years of playing the "nice girl" — and said, "Oh, Nora. You're home early."

As if I were the one intruding.

Ethan scrambled to cover himself, but not before I noticed the scratches running down his chest. He immediately launched into his script. "It's not what it looks like—"

"It looks like you're having sex with my best friend in my bed," I said flatly. "Is there another interpretation I'm missing?"

Sienna slid off the bed, pulling on my robe — my robe — without a shred of shame. "Don't be dramatic, Nora. We were going to tell you. We just didn't know how."

"Tell me what exactly?"

Ethan sat up, and I watched something shift behind his eyes. The panic was gone. In its place was something worse — relief. Like he'd been waiting to get caught.

"I want a divorce," he said.

I almost laughed. He was sitting in our bed, reeking of another woman, and he had the audacity to say it like he was doing me a favor.

"Fine," I said.

That caught him off guard. "Fine? That's it?"

"What did you expect, Ethan? That I'd beg?" I looked at Sienna, who was now nervously twirling her hair. "You can keep the robe. Consider it a parting gift."

I turned and walked out.

I made it all the way to my car before my hands started shaking. Not from sadness — from rage. Three years of marriage. Three years of working double shifts so he could climb the corporate ladder at Blackwell Industries. Three years of pretending I didn't notice the late nights, the "work trips," the way Sienna always seemed to know things about my husband that I didn't.

I'd given him everything. My savings. My time. My trust.

And he'd repaid me by turning my best friend into his mistress.

I drove to the only place that ever made sense when nothing else did — the hospital rooftop. It was where I went during my residency when the pressure got unbearable. The city looked small from up there, and so did my problems.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan.

"You can have the apartment. I'll have my lawyer send the papers. Let's keep this civilized."

Civilized. He wanted civilized.

I was typing a response when another message came through — this one from an unknown number.

"Dr. Ashford, this is Dominic Blackwell's office. Mr. Blackwell has requested a private consultation regarding a personal medical matter. Would tomorrow at 9 AM work?"

Dominic Blackwell.

My ex-husband's CEO. The man whose name Ethan whispered with a mix of worship and terror. The billionaire who owned half the city's skyline and had a reputation for being as ruthless in business as he was private in his personal life.

I'd met him once — briefly — at Ethan's company Christmas party last year. He'd looked at me in a way that made me feel seen for the first time in months. Then Ethan had pulled me away, whispering, "Don't embarrass me in front of him."

Now Dominic Blackwell wanted to see me.

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then I typed: "9 AM works."