Chapter 2

By the time I reached the lobby, my phone had buzzed fourteen more times.

Twelve were from Ethan's investors—or rather, my investors—confirming they'd received the transfer notices and were officially pulling their funding from Pinnacle Media.

One was from my attorney, confirming the divorce settlement had been filed exactly as I'd specified: I kept everything that was mine, and Ethan kept everything that was his.

Which meant Ethan kept nothing.

The last message was from V again.

"He's trying to call the investors. No one's picking up. Estimated time before full panic: twenty minutes."

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a breath of clean autumn air. For the first time in three years, my lungs didn't feel tight.

A black town car was already waiting at the curb. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door. "Ms. Ashford."

Not Cole. Not Mrs. Cole. Not Vivian-who-stands-behind-Ethan.

Ashford. My real name. The one I'd set aside three years ago when I'd been foolish enough to believe love was worth more than legacy.

I slid into the back seat. My chief of staff, Daniel Kerr, was already inside, tablet in hand, scrolling through a cascade of real-time data.

"Three of Pinnacle's top clients have already received our outreach packets," he said without looking up. "Two confirmed meetings for tomorrow. The third wants to meet tonight."

"Tonight works."

Daniel finally glanced at me. Something softened behind his professional mask. "For the record, Ms. Ashford—welcome back. The company hasn't been the same without you."

I'd built Ashford Capital from the ground up before I ever met Ethan Cole. A private equity firm with a portfolio worth $1.6 billion, quietly managed through a trust while I played the role of supportive wife. I'd stepped back—not down. The board had kept my seat warm. My people had kept the machine running.

Ethan never knew. He never even thought to ask where my money came from. He assumed I was a mid-level marketing executive with good savings habits and generous parents.

He never once wondered how a "mid-level marketing executive" could casually write a $3 million seed check.

My phone rang. Ethan's name flashed on the screen.

I answered.

"VIVIAN!" His voice was ragged, stripped of every ounce of composure. "What did you do?! Morrison Capital just pulled out! Henley Group isn't returning my calls! What the hell did you do?!"

"I didn't do anything, Ethan. I simply stopped doing things for you."

Silence.

"Every investor you have came through me. Every introduction, every dinner, every handshake—that was my network, my reputation, my word. You didn't lose your investors. You never had them."

His breathing was heavy, uneven. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, trying to recalculate, trying to find the angle.

"You're bluffing. You don't have that kind of pull. You're a—"

"A what?" My voice dropped to ice. "A nobody? A woman who stood behind you and smiled? Say it, Ethan. Tell me again what I am."

He didn't.

"Pinnacle Media will be insolvent within seventy-two hours. Your office lease is up for renewal next week, and I can guarantee your landlord has already received a better offer. Your employees will start getting recruitment calls by morning."

"You can't—"

"I already have."

I hung up.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Seventy-two hours? That's generous."

"I want him to feel every single one of them."

The car pulled away from the curb. Through the tinted window, I watched the city slide past—the same city where I'd once shrunk myself small enough to fit inside Ethan Cole's shadow.

Never again.

My phone buzzed one more time. A tabloid news alert.

"PINNACLE MEDIA CEO ETHAN COLE SPOTTED WITH NEW GIRLFRIEND AT LUXURY RESTAURANT — SOURCES SAY HE'S 'NEVER BEEN HAPPIER.'"

The photo showed Ethan and Mira, taken just last night, champagne glasses raised, her hand on his thigh under the table.

I looked at it for exactly two seconds, then swiped it away.

Enjoy the champagne, Ethan. It's the last bottle you'll be able to afford.