Chapter 3

The lawyer Dominic recommended was a woman named Vivienne Cross — sharp, ruthless, and terrifyingly efficient.

Within forty-eight hours, she'd uncovered that Ethan had been funneling money from our joint accounts into a private investment fund — one that conveniently listed Sienna as a co-beneficiary.

"Your husband has been financially preparing for this divorce for at least ten months," Vivienne told me over coffee. "He moved assets, adjusted account permissions, and even changed the beneficiary on his life insurance policy — all while you were performing open-heart surgeries."

I stared at the documents spread across the table. Every page was another betrayal, another layer of deception I'd been too busy — too trusting — to see.

"What are my options?" I asked.

Vivienne smiled. It was the kind of smile that made opposing lawyers lose sleep. "We bury him."

…

Meanwhile, Ethan was acting like the divorce was already settled.

He'd moved into Sienna's apartment — a sleek downtown loft that I now realized he'd been paying for with our money. He'd also been telling mutual friends that we'd "grown apart" and that he wished me "nothing but the best."

The audacity was almost impressive.

It was during my second appointment with Dominic that things shifted between us.

I was checking his blood pressure when he asked, "How did the meeting with Vivienne go?"

"She's terrifying. I like her."

"She's the best at what she does." He paused as I wrapped the cuff around his arm. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

I looked up. His gray eyes were fixed on me with that unnerving intensity. "Your hands are steady, but your jaw is clenched. You've been grinding your teeth — probably at night. And you've lost weight since the last time I saw you."

"You're very observant for a patient."

"I'm observant about you."

The air between us changed. I could feel it — a charge, like the moment before lightning strikes.

I finished the reading and stepped back. "Your blood pressure is slightly elevated. Are you under unusual stress?"

"You could say that." His eyes never left mine. "I've been thinking about something I shouldn't."

"What's that?"

"You."

I held my breath.

Dominic slowly rose from his chair. He was close — close enough that I could smell his cologne, something warm and woodsy that made my head swim.

"I've been thinking about you since that Christmas party," he said quietly. "You walked in wearing a blue dress, and you looked like you didn't belong there — not because you weren't good enough, but because everyone else wasn't good enough for you.

"Your husband spent the entire night talking to clients and left you standing alone by the bar. I wanted to walk over. I almost did. But you were married, and I have rules about that."

My voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm still married."

"For now." He reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered at my temple. "But not for much longer."

My phone buzzed, shattering the moment.

It was a text from Ethan: "My lawyer sent the settlement offer. Just sign it so we can both move on."

I looked at the message, then at Dominic.

He read the text over my shoulder and his jaw hardened. "Don't sign it."

"I wasn't going to."

Something flickered in his eyes — approval, maybe. Or desire. "Good. Because I intend to make sure you get everything you deserve, Nora."

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling of my half-empty apartment. Ethan had already taken most of his things. The closet was half bare, the bathroom counter cleared of his products. The only evidence he'd ever lived here was the indent on his side of the mattress.

I thought about Dominic's words. About the way he looked at me. About the way my heart raced when he was close — and not because of any medical condition.

My mother's voice echoed in my mind. She'd called me a week before she died — before the cancer took her — and said, "Don't make my mistake, Nora. Don't give your whole heart to a man who only wants half of it."

I'd thought she was talking about my father, who'd left us when I was twelve.

Now I realized she was talking about all of them.

But Dominic didn't feel like all of them. He felt like something else entirely — something dangerous and exhilarating, like performing surgery with no safety net.

The question was whether I was brave enough to fall.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Dominic.

"I can't stop thinking about you. I know I should, but I can't."

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then I typed back: "Then don't."