Chapter 1

I crawled out of the hospital with a miscarriage report in one hand and divorce papers in the other—my husband's secretary had delivered both at the same time.

The blood was still running down my legs. The nurses hadn't even finished the procedure when the secretary walked in, tossed the envelope on my lap, and said, "Mr. Ashford needs these signed by tonight."

I looked at the divorce papers. Ethan's signature was already there—bold, clean, decisive. He'd signed them before I even lost the baby. He probably signed them while I was bleeding out on the bathroom floor of the apartment he'd forgotten existed.

Three years. I had been Ethan Ashford's contract wife for three years.

The deal was simple. His grandfather's will required him to marry before thirty or forfeit control of Ashford Group. I was nobody—an orphan raised by my grandmother, drowning in her medical debt. Ethan needed a disposable wife. I needed $200,000 for Grandma's surgery.

It was supposed to be purely transactional. I wasn't supposed to fall in love with him.

But I did. God help me, I did.

I fell in love with the way he worked until 3 a.m., with the rare moments he'd look at me like I was almost a real person, with the jacket he once draped over my shoulders at a company event before his stepsister Vivienne appeared and he pulled it right back off me.

Vivienne Ashford. His father's stepdaughter. The woman everyone in the Ashford family believed was Ethan's perfect match.

She had made my life a living hell from the day I moved in, and Ethan had let her. Every single time.

I pressed the gauze tighter between my legs and limped toward the hospital exit. I didn't have money for a taxi. Ethan had frozen the household card six months ago when Vivienne told him I'd been "spending recklessly on designer goods." The truth was, I'd used it to pay for Grandma's chemotherapy—the treatment Ethan had verbally promised to cover when we signed the contract but never actually arranged.

I had been buying the cheapest instant noodles for months. Vivienne was the one wearing Chanel.

My phone buzzed.

A text from Vivienne: "Heard you lost the baby. Honestly, it's for the best. Ethan would have been disgusted knowing he fathered a child with someone like you. Sign the papers, take your little settlement, and disappear. Don't make this uglier than it needs to be. 😊"

I stared at the message until my vision blurred.

She knew about the baby. She'd known before Ethan did, because I'd made the mistake of telling her first, hoping—stupidly, pathetically hoping—she'd help me share the news with him.

That was two weeks ago.

Two days later, my prenatal vitamins were swapped. I didn't notice the difference until the cramping started.

I had no proof. I had nothing.

I leaned against the cold hospital wall and slid to the ground. The security guard glanced at me, then looked away. Just another broken woman on the pavement. Nothing unusual for a city like this.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Ethan.

"I heard you're making a scene at the hospital. Stop embarrassing yourself and sign the papers, Selene. Vivienne is already upset enough about this situation."

Vivienne was upset.

I almost laughed. Almost.

I clicked off the phone and pressed my hand against my empty stomach. I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you.

I signed the divorce papers right there on the hospital floor, using my knee as a desk. My hands were shaking so badly the signature barely looked like mine.

Then I texted Ethan one final message: "Done."

He read it instantly. No reply.

I dropped the papers at the front desk, walked out of the hospital, and never looked back.