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Natalie's POV My husband had exactly one rule on our wedding night: I was never allowed in his bedroom. When I naively asked if we would ever share the master suite, Julian didn't even bother to look up at me. "Don't push it, Natalie," he said, his voice completely devoid of warmth. "Serena wouldn't like it." Serena Holt. His college sweetheart. The woman he actually wanted to marry. "If it hadn't been for your family's manipulation, we never would have ended up like this," he added coldly, loosening his tie. "Stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours." I stood there in my custom Vera Wang gown, frozen, before I finally managed a tight nod. I told myself it didn't matter. This marriage was never more than a corporate merger. My father's firm, Ashford Capital, needed liquidity. His family's empire, Mercer Holdings, needed our political connections to make a federal lawsuit disappear. Both sides got what they needed. Nothing more. Once the business was settled, we'd go our separate ways. That had always been the unspoken clause. For the next three years, he took her everywhere. Charity galas—Serena. Hamptons retreats—Serena. Even my mother's memorial foundation dinner, it was Serena standing by his side in a dress paid for by his black Amex. New York high society whispered, wondering who exactly was the true Mrs. Mercer. Well. Now it didn't matter. Ashford Capital was thriving again. The Mercer lawsuit was a distant memory. It was time for me to go. --- I sat in the mahogany-paneled study and read through the divorce settlement one last time. Black ink on heavy parchment, every clause ironclad. In the property division section, I didn't play the martyr. I was taking the twenty-million-dollar divorce settlement stipulated in our prenup, plus my original trust fund. I was an Ashford. I wasn't about to walk away from a bad deal empty-handed. But the penthouse? He could keep it. His shares in Mercer Holdings? I didn't care. I signed my name at the bottom with a gold Montblanc pen. Natalie Ashford. I slid the agreement back into the leather folder and set it on his massive oak desk. Then I picked up my phone and opened our message thread. "Come home early tonight. There's something I need to give you." Two minutes later, a single word appeared beneath his name. "Fine." I set the phone face-down on the marble coffee table. I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of sparkling water. It was a sprawling chef's kitchen. Early in our marriage, I had actually tried to play the devoted wife. I once dismissed our private chef to personally cook a Wagyu steak dinner for his birthday. He came home two hours late, took one bite, and his phone rang. Serena had a panic attack. He walked out without a second glance. The last time I tried, I spent all afternoon preparing a full anniversary dinner. He walked in at eight. With Serena. They walked in laughing. When he saw the candlelight and the table set for two, he paused—just a beat—and said: "We already have reservations at Le Bernardin. Don't wait up." Serena had stood behind him, tilting her head at me with an innocent, cloying smile. "You went to so much trouble for nothing, Natalie." Even now, thinking about that smile turned my stomach. After that, I never lifted a finger for him again. Seven o'clock that evening. No sign of him. Eight o'clock. Still nothing. At nine, my phone buzzed. "Serena needs me. I'll be late. Don't wait up." I stared at the glowing screen. Don't wait up. I'd been hearing that line for three years. Every time. Always Serena. She caught a cold—he flew her to a private clinic. She was in a bad mood—he bought her a yacht. She adopted a cat—he skipped a board meeting to help her pick out toys. I didn't reply to his message. I used to perform the role of a gracious, understanding wife. A simple 'okay' so he wouldn't feel guilty. Tonight, I didn't want to. In a few days, his messages wouldn't be coming to me at all.

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