Chapter 1

The pregnancy test showed two pink lines — and my husband was in the next room, calling another woman "baby."

I pressed my hand over my mouth so he wouldn't hear me breathing.

Through the crack in the study door, I heard every word.

"Elena, you know this marriage means nothing. She's just a contract. You're the only one I've ever loved."

Ethan Cole — New York's youngest billionaire CEO, my husband of two years, the father of the child I'd just discovered I was carrying — was reassuring his childhood sweetheart that I was nobody.

And the worst part?

He was right.

Our marriage was a contract. His dying grandfather's last wish: marry the granddaughter of his old war buddy, or lose the inheritance. That granddaughter was me — Claire Ashford, a nobody junior architect from a small firm, with no money, no connections, and apparently, no dignity.

Grandpa Cole had passed six months after the wedding. The will was settled. Ethan got his billions.

I got two years of sleeping in separate bedrooms and eating dinner alone.

I'd kept my end of the deal. I played the dutiful wife at every charity gala, smiled for every camera, hosted every family dinner. I ironed his shirts because the housekeeper never got the collar right. I learned to make his coffee exactly how he liked it — black, two ice cubes, oat milk on the side — even though he never once said thank you.

I told myself it was just a contract. Don't catch feelings.

I failed.

Somewhere between the quiet mornings and the way he'd occasionally fall asleep on the couch while I watched TV — looking almost human, almost soft — I'd fallen for my own husband.

Stupid. Pathetic. I knew.

Now I stood in the hallway, pregnancy test in my shaking hand, listening to him promise another woman that I meant nothing.

His voice dropped lower. "The contract ends in three months. I'll divorce her. Then we can finally be together. Publicly."

Three months.

I looked down at the test.

I had three months — and a secret that changed everything.

I slipped back to my bedroom, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the bed.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

"Hi Claire! It's Elena Park. Ethan gave me your number. I'm coming to New York next week and I'd LOVE to meet the woman who's been taking care of my Ethan. Lunch? 💕"

My Ethan.

I stared at the message until the screen went dark.

Then I opened my work email and saw something that made my breath catch.

The International Architecture Grand Prix — the most prestigious competition in the industry — had accepted my anonymous submission into the final round.

My hand moved to my stomach.

I'd spent two years being invisible.

Maybe it was time to stop.