Chapter 2

I don't remember driving home.

I don't remember parking, or walking through the front door, or sitting down at the kitchen table where Iris's untouched birthday cake still stood—three pink candles waiting to be lit.

I just sat there. Staring at the fondant butterflies I'd spent hours shaping with my fingers, thinking how stupid I was to believe that love could be earned through devotion.

"She was never my wife."

"Just the nanny I married on paper."

"I'll get rid of her by the end of the week."

Each word replayed like a knife dragging slowly across my chest.

Three years. Three years of waking at dawn to prepare his breakfast, pressing his suits, organizing his schedule. Three years of raising Iris—feeding her, bathing her, holding her through fevers and nightmares. Three years of sleeping beside a man who flinched when I accidentally touched him in his sleep.

And I was nothing. A contractual obligation with a heartbeat.

The worst part? I couldn't even hate him. Because I had signed the contract willingly.

I remembered the day clearly—sitting across from his lawyer in that cold conference room, twenty-three years old, drowning in medical debt from my mother's cancer treatment. Lucian needed a wife on paper to secure full custody of infant Iris after Isabelle's "death." The maternal grandparents were fighting for the baby. A single father looked unstable. A married couple looked better in court.

"Two years," his lawyer had said. "You play the role. You get paid. You walk away."

But two years became three. And somewhere between Iris's first word—"Mama," directed at me—and the night Lucian fell asleep on my shoulder after drinking too much on their anniversary, I made the fatal mistake.

I fell in love.

Now I was paying for it.

Rosa found me at the table around midnight, still sitting in the dark.

"Solace, dear God—" She flipped on the light and rushed over. "What happened? You've been gone for hours, and Mr. Kade never came home—"

"He's not coming," I said flatly. "Not for me."

She stared at me, reading something in my face that made her go pale. "What did he do?"

I couldn't say it. Not yet. Instead, I stood and walked upstairs to Iris's room.

She was asleep, thumb in her mouth, her butterfly crown still crooked on her head. I knelt beside her crib—we'd just transitioned her to a toddler bed last week—and brushed her hair from her forehead.

"Happy birthday, baby girl," I whispered, tears finally falling. "Mama's here."

Except I wasn't her mama. Not legally. Not biologically. Not in any way that mattered to the law or to Lucian.

I was no one.

My phone buzzed. Lucian's name lit the screen.

Lucian: Something came up. Won't be home tonight. Kiss Iris for me.

No apology. No mention of the birthday. No explanation.

I typed back: Where are you?

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then:

Lucian: Don't wait up.

I stared at those two words until my vision blurred.

Don't wait up. As if I hadn't been waiting for three years.

The next morning, I moved through the house like a ghost. Made breakfast. Fed Iris. Cleaned the kitchen. Folded laundry. The mechanical ritual of a woman who had nothing left but routine.

At 10 a.m., the front door opened.

Lucian walked in, looking immaculate—fresh suit, clean shave, not a single wrinkle. Like he'd spent the night somewhere comfortable.

He barely glanced at me. "Morning."

"Iris waited for you yesterday," I said quietly, not turning from the sink. "She kept asking where Daddy was."

A flicker of guilt crossed his face. Just a flicker. "I'll make it up to her."

"You always say that."

He paused, then set down his briefcase. "Solace, I don't have time for this."

"For what? Your daughter's birthday? Or for me?"

His jaw tightened. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything," I said, finally facing him. "I'm asking you a simple question. Where were you last night?"

His eyes met mine—cold, gray, unreadable. The same eyes that once looked at Isabelle with fire and adoration. The same eyes that looked at me with nothing.

"I was handling something," he said. "Business."

"Business," I repeated.

"Yes."

I held his gaze. Liar. But I didn't say it. Not yet. Because if Isabelle was truly alive, then everything—the contract, the custody arrangement, my place in this house—was about to collapse.

And I needed to be ready when it did.

"Your coffee's on the counter," I said, turning back to the sink. "Iris is napping."

He grabbed the mug without a word and disappeared into his study.

I waited until I heard the door close. Then I pulled out my phone and called the one person who had always told me the truth—even when I didn't want to hear it.

My best friend. Diane.

"Di," I said, voice breaking. "I need your help. Isabelle Kade is alive."

The silence on the other end lasted three full seconds.

Then: "Pack a bag. I'm coming to get you. Tonight."

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