Chapter 2

The Ashford estate was exactly as I remembered—cold marble, fresh lilies in crystal vases, and a silence so heavy it pressed against your eardrums.

I arrived with one suitcase. In my first life, I'd brought twelve—dresses chosen to impress him, books I thought we might read together, a framed photo of my parents' wedding that I'd hoped to hang in our bedroom.

He'd had his housekeeper move me to the guest wing before I'd even unpacked.

This time, I walked straight to the guest wing myself.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Park, watched me with wide eyes. "Mrs. Ashford, don't you want to see the master suite first?"

"No," I said. "This is fine."

She looked confused. In my first life, I had stood in the hallway of the master suite for twenty minutes, waiting for Dominic to come out and welcome me. He never did. Mrs. Park had found me there and gently guided me away, her eyes full of pity.

I wouldn't give anyone a reason to pity me this time.

I unpacked my single suitcase in fifteen minutes. No photos. No sentimental trinkets. Just clothes, my laptop, and a folder of financial documents I'd spent the last six months preparing.

In my first life, I had spent the early months of my marriage trying to win Dominic over through domestic perfection. I learned his schedule, anticipated his needs, left little thoughtful gestures that he never acknowledged.

This time, I didn't go to his study. I didn't learn his coffee order. I didn't haunt the kitchen trying to recreate his mother's braised short ribs.

Instead, I sat at my desk in the guest wing and began making phone calls.

"Mr. Whitfield? It's Vivienne Lane. I'd like to discuss the Carrington portfolio. I believe there's an opportunity your firm has overlooked."

In my first life, I'd let my father's company crumble while I played house. By the time Dominic discarded me, I had nothing—no career, no assets, no identity outside of Mrs. Ashford.

Not this time.

I didn't see Dominic for the first three days. He was traveling, or at Sienna's apartment, or simply avoiding the inconvenience of his new wife. It didn't matter. His absence was a gift.

On the fourth day, I came downstairs for breakfast and found him in the dining room.

He was reading the Financial Times, a cup of black coffee beside him. He didn't look up when I entered.

In my first life, my heart would have been hammering. I would have agonized over what to say, how to sit, whether my dress was pretty enough.

Now, I simply poured myself coffee, took a seat at the opposite end of the long table, and opened my own newspaper.

The silence stretched between us, vast and indifferent.

After a full five minutes, he looked up. His eyes—dark, sharp, the kind of eyes that made boardrooms go quiet—landed on me with a flicker of surprise.

"You're up early," he said. His voice was deep, clipped, entirely devoid of warmth.

"I have a meeting at nine," I replied, not looking up from my paper.

Another pause. I could feel his gaze on me, assessing, categorizing. In his world, people existed in two categories: useful and irrelevant. I had always been the latter.

"A meeting," he repeated, a faint note of skepticism in his tone.

"With Whitfield Capital. About restructuring the Carrington portfolio."

He set down his coffee cup. I had his attention now, not as a wife, but as an anomaly. In the prenuptial briefing his lawyers had prepared, I was described as docile, agreeable, no professional ambitions. A perfect prop.

"You know Marcus Whitfield?" he asked.

"I went to Columbia with his daughter."

He studied me for a moment longer, then returned to his paper. "Don't use the Ashford name in your dealings."

"I wasn't planning to," I said.

I finished my coffee, folded my newspaper, and stood. As I passed his chair, I didn't slow down. I didn't brush his shoulder. I didn't linger.

I felt his eyes follow me out of the room.

Good. Let him be confused. In my first life, I had been so desperate for his attention that I'd arranged myself around his every movement like a satellite orbiting a sun.

This time, I was my own sun. And he was barely a blip on my radar.

That afternoon, Sienna came to the house.

I was in the garden, reviewing contracts on my laptop, when I heard the click of her heels on the stone path.

She was stunning—red dress, perfect makeup, the kind of effortless beauty that made other women feel like rough drafts. She stopped when she saw me, her smile faltering for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.

"You must be Vivienne," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Sienna. Dominic's... friend."

In my first life, I had shaken that hand and spent the next three years pretending I didn't know what friend meant.

I shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"I just wanted to welcome you," she said, her voice dripping with a sweetness that didn't reach her eyes. "And to let you know that Dominic and I have been close for a very long time. I hope that won't be... awkward."

She was marking her territory.

"Not at all," I said, my smile pleasant and empty. "I'm not easily made uncomfortable."

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. She had expected tears, or stammering, or the quiet devastation of a woman who'd just realized her husband belonged to someone else.

My indifference unsettled her.

"Well," she said, recovering quickly, "I'm glad we understand each other."

She turned and walked toward the house, her heels clicking with the confidence of a woman who believed she'd already won.

She had no idea that in another life, I had already lost everything to her. And that this time, I had nothing left to lose.

That night, I lay in the guest wing and stared at the ceiling. The house was silent. Dominic was in the master suite, probably on the phone with Sienna.

I closed my eyes and whispered to the darkness: Three years. That's all you get. Then I'm gone, and I'm taking everything I'm owed with me.

The next morning, I found a small velvet box outside my door. Inside was a platinum bracelet—expensive, impersonal, the kind of gift an assistant picks out.

There was no note.

In my first life, I would have worn it every day, treasured it as proof that he cared.

I left it on the hallway table and went to my meeting.