Chapter 3

The world narrowed to a single, suffocating point.

Two years. Twenty-four months of lies, of empty bed excuses, of "late meetings" and "work trips." Every time I'd reached for Ryan in bed and he'd turned away claiming exhaustion — he'd already been with her.

My sister.

Ryan was gripping Lily's arm, hissing at her to stop talking, but she was on a roll now, enjoying every second of my devastation.

"All those weekends Ryan said he was golfing with clients?" Lily continued, her voice light, almost playful. "We were at the lake house. Your lake house, actually. The one your grandmother left you. That king bed is very comfortable, by the way."

"That's enough, Lily!" Ryan snapped.

But Lily just laughed — a bright, careless sound. "Oh, relax. She was going to find out eventually. Better now than after I'm pregnant."

The word detonated in my chest.

Pregnant.

I looked at Lily — really looked at her. The slightly fuller face. The way her hand had been resting on her lower stomach all evening. The loose cut of the dress that I'd assumed was just the style.

"You're not," I breathed.

Lily's smile widened. She pressed both hands flat against her belly in a gesture so deliberate, so theatrical, it could only be meant to destroy me.

"Eight weeks."

Ryan closed his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently.

"Claire," he started, his voice suddenly soft, the way you'd speak to someone standing on a ledge, "let's go home and talk about this privately. Please."

"Privately?" I laughed — a sound so bitter it scraped my own throat. "You've been sleeping with my sister in my grandmother's house for two years, and you want privacy?"

"Keep your voice down—"

"No."

That single word came out with a force that surprised even me.

I turned to face Ryan fully. The man I had loved since college. The man I had supported through his failed first startup, his second startup, his third. The man whose company — Ashworth Capital — was built on a foundation loan from my trust fund. My grandmother's trust fund.

"I co-signed the founding loan for Ashworth Capital," I said, each word precise. "I deferred my own career to manage your household, host your clients, and organize your charity galas. I gave up my position at my family's firm because you said it was a 'conflict of interest' for both of us to work in finance."

Ryan's expression tightened. "Claire, that has nothing to do with—"

"I turned down the London partnership at Sinclair & Wren. For you. Because you said you needed me here." My voice was climbing and I didn't care. "And the whole time — the whole time — you were with her."

"It just happened!" Ryan exploded, and for one raw second, the mask dropped completely. "You were always so — so perfect, Claire! So composed, so put-together, so goddamn understanding! Do you know how exhausting it is to be with someone who never needs anything?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

He realized what he'd said. I watched the regret flood his face in real time.

"Claire, I didn't mean—"

"You cheated on me because I was too understanding?"

He reached for me. I stepped back.

"Don't touch me."

"Claire—"

"I said don't touch me!"

My voice echoed down the corridor. A waiter at the far end quickly turned around and disappeared.

Lily yawned — actually yawned — and checked her phone. "Are you two almost done? My feet hurt."

I looked at her. My baby sister. The girl I'd raised after our mother died. The girl I'd tutored through school, paid for college, defended against every bully and every boyfriend who didn't treat her right.

"I hope it's worth it, Lily. Because as of tonight, you've lost a lot more than a sister."

I turned and walked back through the restaurant, past the staring faces, past our anniversary table still stained with red wine, past the hostess who wouldn't meet my eyes.

Behind me, I heard Ryan call my name once. Then again.

I didn't stop.

The night air hit my face like cold water. I stood on the sidewalk, clutching my car keys so hard the metal bit into my palm.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Claire Ashworth? I'm Marcus Blackwell's assistant. He'd like to meet with you regarding your co-signature on the Ashworth Capital founding documents. It's urgent. Are you available tonight?

Marcus Blackwell. The most feared corporate attorney on the East Coast.

Why would he be contacting me about Ryan's company?

My hands were still shaking, but my mind was suddenly, dangerously clear.

I texted back: Send me the address.