Chapter 2

Daniel answered on the second ring, despite it being almost midnight.

"Vivienne?" His voice was alert, as if he'd been expecting this call for years. Maybe he had. "Talk to me."

"I need a divorce lawyer," I said, my voice steady in a way that surprised me. The tears would come later. Right now, I was operating on something colder than grief. "I need the best one. I need you."

"Where are you?"

"Guest bathroom. My penthouse." I almost laughed at the absurdity. "My husband is down the hall with my best friend."

A pause. Then, carefully: "Have you confronted him?"

"Yes."

"Did he admit to anything verbally?"

"He told me not to be dramatic and to close the door on my way out."

"Good. That's usable. Now listen to me carefully, Viv." Daniel's voice shifted into the precise, clinical tone I remembered from law school debates. "Do not move out. Do not transfer money. Do not delete a single text message. And whatever you do, do not tell him you've called me."

"Why?"

"Because Alexander Mercer is worth $4.2 billion, and men like him don't lose. They bury. The only advantage you have right now is that he thinks you're weak."

I swallowed hard. "He's not wrong. I signed a prenup, Daniel. I was twenty-three and stupid and thought he loved me."

"I've broken prenups before. But I need ammunition. Bank records, communication logs, evidence of infidelity, evidence of any financial misconduct. Can you access his home office?"

"He never locks it. He doesn't think I'm smart enough to understand what's inside."

"Then he's already lost. He just doesn't know it yet."

After we hung up, I sat in the dark for a long time. Through the bathroom wall, the penthouse had gone quiet. I imagined them sleeping—peaceful, satisfied, wrapped in sheets that cost more than most people's monthly rent.

I opened my phone's camera and pulled up the ultrasound photo I'd taken a digital copy of that afternoon. That tiny flutter on the screen—barely a heartbeat, barely real—was the only thing keeping me from shattering completely.

"I'll protect you," I whispered. "I'll protect us both."

The next morning, I performed the role of my life.

I made coffee. I set out Alexander's preferred breakfast—black coffee, egg whites, the Financial Times folded to the markets section. When he appeared in his custom Tom Ford suit, not a hair out of place, I smiled.

"Good morning," I said, pouring his coffee.

He studied me with those steel-gray eyes, searching for cracks. I gave him none.

"About last night—" he began.

"You're right," I interrupted gently. "I was dramatic. I'm sorry."

Something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, or the satisfaction of a man who believed he'd won. He kissed my forehead, a gesture so automatic it held no warmth.

"We'll discuss the pregnancy situation with Dr. Hartley next week," he said, checking his Patek Philippe. "There are... considerations."

Considerations. As if our child were a line item in a quarterly report.

"Of course," I said sweetly. "Whatever you think is best."

The moment his car pulled away from the building, I moved.

His home office was exactly as Daniel predicted—unlocked, organized with the arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable. I photographed everything: bank statements showing transfers to accounts I'd never seen, receipts from jewelry stores for pieces I'd never received, hotel bookings in cities where he'd claimed to be in meetings.

Three years of lies, documented in neat manila folders.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jessica: "No hard feelings, babe? Brunch Saturday? 💕"

I stared at the message, rage burning behind my sternum like acid. Fifteen years of friendship—sleepovers, college finals, bridesmaid duties—reduced to a casual emoji.

I typed back: "Of course! Miss you already. 😊"

Then I photographed her text and added it to the evidence file.

Keep smiling, Jessica. Keep thinking I'm the naive little wife who'll cry and forgive.

By the time I'm done, you won't recognize me.

And neither will he.