Chapter 2

The penthouse was dark when I returned to collect my things.

I hadn't accumulated much in three years. A small suitcase of clothes, a few books, a journal I kept hidden in the bathroom cabinet. Everything else in this forty-million-dollar apartment belonged to Dominic—every piece of furniture, every painting, every cold marble surface.

I moved quickly. The last thing I wanted was to still be here when he came home.

But luck had never been on my side.

The front door opened just as I was zipping up my suitcase. Dominic walked in, loosening his tie, his jaw set in that familiar expression of controlled authority.

Behind him was Isabelle Chen.

She was even more stunning in person—tall, sharp-featured, draped in designer everything. She looked around the penthouse like she was already measuring it for new curtains.

When her eyes landed on me, she smiled.

"Oh. You must be the current Mrs. Sterling." She tilted her head. "I thought you'd already left."

I held her gaze without flinching. "I'm on my way out."

Dominic barely glanced at me. He walked past as if I were part of the décor. "Did you sign the papers?"

"Yes."

"Good." He poured himself a drink. "Leave the keys on the counter."

Three years. Not a single word of goodbye. Not even a thank you for keeping up the act.

Isabelle, however, wasn't done. She walked closer, her heels clicking on the marble like a countdown.

"I hope there are no hard feelings," she said sweetly. "Dominic and I go way back. This was always going to happen eventually."

I looked at her and almost felt sorry for her. She had no idea what she was walking into.

"No hard feelings," I replied evenly. "He's all yours."

I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. Just as I reached it, Dominic's voice stopped me.

"Sera."

I turned, surprised. It was the first time he had used my actual name in months.

He was staring at me, drink in hand, something unreadable in his dark eyes. For one fleeting moment, I thought he might say something human.

Instead, he said, "Don't contact me after this. Don't go to the media. If you cause any trouble for Sterling Group, the NDA you signed will bury you."

Whatever warmth I imagined vanished like smoke.

I gave him a thin smile. "Don't worry, Dominic. After tonight, you won't hear from me ever again."

And I meant it.

Outside, the night air hit my face like a slap. I stood on the curb with one suitcase and $43 in my bank account. The $50,000 I had refused out of pride suddenly felt like a very stupid decision.

But I refused to regret it.

I hailed a cab and gave the driver an address I hadn't visited in years—my mother's old apartment. It was small, barely livable, and the landlord had been storing my mother's remaining belongings there out of pity.

When I arrived and opened the door, dust filled my lungs. Everything was exactly as I'd left it. My mother's old coat still hung by the door. Her reading glasses sat on the kitchen table.

I sat down on the creaky bed and finally let myself cry.

Not for Dominic. Not for the marriage.

For the girl who had walked into that contract three years ago, thinking she could survive without getting hurt.

I cried until I had nothing left. Then I washed my face, opened my laptop, and began to plan.

I had a degree in biochemistry that I'd never used. Before marrying Dominic, I had been two months away from completing a research fellowship at a prestigious lab. I'd given it up because the contract required me to be "available at all times."

Now, I was going to get it back.

I also had a secret—one that even Dominic didn't know.

My mother wasn't just a sick woman who died in debt. Before her illness, Dr. Lena Voss had been one of the leading pharmaceutical researchers in the country. She had developed a formula that three major drug companies had been trying to acquire for years.

That formula was in a notebook hidden inside this apartment.

And it was worth far, far more than $50,000.

I placed my hand on my stomach again.

"I promise you," I whispered to the life growing inside me, "we will never need anyone again."

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"Sera, it's Isabelle. I found your number in Dominic's old phone. I just wanted to let you know—the wedding is set for next month. I hope you'll move on gracefully. Not every woman is meant to be a Sterling."

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then I blocked the number, plugged in my phone, and went to sleep.