Chapter 1

I married my boss. In secret.

Six years ago, in a courthouse, with zero witnesses and zero fanfare, because apparently that's just how you do things when your husband is the Ice King of Ashford Group and terrified of anyone finding out he has feelings.

Six years and one kid later — a five-year-old who inherited every ounce of his father's charm, meaning none — and here's where we're at: the day my sexual harassment case finally went to trial, my husband and my son got on a plane.

To Switzerland.

To go skiing with Blair. Cassian's ex. The one he dated for seven years before me.

She needed "cheering up," apparently.

They didn't even bother coming back until a week after the trial wrapped. Cassian walked in rubbing his temples like he was the one who'd had a rough week, and gave me this:

"She wasn't doing great."

Atlas — my son, five going on forty — trailed in right behind him, already doing his tiny impression of his father's Congratulations, You've Been Dismissed voice.

"Next time we'll come. Promise."

"We got you a present, though. So you can stop being mad now, okay?"

Okay.

I said okay. And I meant it, I genuinely didn't have it in me to fight about it. No tears, no yelling, none of the usual meltdown. I just took the little box of chocolate and let it go.

Which, weirdly, seemed to freak them out more than the meltdown ever did.

......

A few days later I'm at brunch with my best friend, and she's scrolling TikTok going off about this whole "ex recall" trend. You know, don't date a guy with a long-term ex still in the picture, because one text from her and he'll go running.

"Seriously, watch yourself with that ex of Cassian's."

I'm elbow-deep in a mimosa at this point, so I just laugh it off.

"Please. Let her recall him. Buy one get one free, she can take the husband and the kid. Honestly? I don't even want the kid anymore."

I hear something drop behind me.

Turn around, and there they are. Cassian and Atlas. Standing two feet away.

Both of them white as printer paper.

Atlas is five. Watching me like I just told him Santa isn't real. Little chin up, little arms stiff at his sides, and this look on his face like he genuinely cannot compute how the mother who dotes on him constantly could say something like that.

Cassian's face does the thing it always does — goes flat, unreadable, calculating. He looks at me for a long beat before he finally holds out his hand.

"We came to take you home."

I almost laugh.

That's a first. Six years of marriage and this man has never once picked me up from anywhere. At the office it was "optics." Out in public it was "someone might recognize us." I could probably count on one hand the number of times I've actually sat in his passenger seat.

I'm his wife. You'd think that would come with, I don't know, ride privileges. But no, every time I brought it up he'd just stand there and let me spiral until I burned myself out.

So, genuinely — what changed today?

I get in. The seat's pulled way too far forward, like it's built for someone half my size. I shove it back.

There's a tube of lipstick sitting in the cupholder. Some soft, dusty-pink shade. Definitely not mine.

Then I clock the keychain on Atlas's backpack, the little charm I sewed on myself, gone, replaced with some obnoxiously overpriced designer teddy bear.

He's fidgeting with it, eyes darting to me like he's bracing for impact.

"Aunt Blair gave it to me."

Beat. Then, quieter: "If it bothers you I can...I can take it off—"

"It doesn't bother me."

I say it flat, still looking at my phone.

He freezes. So does Cassian, glancing over at me like he's trying to solve a math problem he doesn't have the formula for.

Finally, he clears his throat. Tries, badly, at something resembling warmth.

"So, how's the case looking?"

"Fine. Waiting on the ruling. Lawyers seem confident."

I don't even look up.

Silence again. My calm seems to be getting under his skin, his fingers start tapping the wheel. By the next red light he cracks, and it comes out sounding less like an apology and more like he's granting me a favor.

"I know you're still upset we missed the trial."

"So here's what we'll do. You've always wanted this out in the open at work, right?"

"Monday, after the morning meeting. I'll tell everyone."

I look up despite myself, right into his face, and there it is — that little edge of condescension, like he's handing me a gift I should be grateful for.

And honestly? I almost laugh.

Going public.

I stopped wanting that a long time ago.