Chapter 2

Seeing his panic, my heart twisted. I immediately regretted pushing him.

"I'm sorry, Oliver," I whispered, pulling him into a tight hug. "Mom's just tired. Forget I asked."

To ease the tension, I went down to the kitchen. 

I pulled out the ingredients to make his favorite—classic French beef stew. I remembered exactly how he liked it: extra carrots, no pearl onions. 

An hour later, I set the steaming bowl on the dining table. "Oliver. Come eat."

He shuffled into the dining room, his head hanging low. He picked up his spoon, stared at the rich broth, and suddenly burst into tears.

"Mom, don't leave!" he sobbed.

I rushed over, pulling him against my chest. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I know about Dad and Aunt Barbara," he choked out, burying his wet face in my shirt. "But Dad said it's just a fake marriage! He promised!"

"He said it's just for a ceremony. So please, Mom, don't be mad. Don't leave us!" 

I stroked his hair, letting out a heavy sigh. "I know, baby. I know."

His tiny mind couldn't process the twisted games adults played. He just blindly trusted his father, desperate to keep our family intact. 

But the adult world wasn't a fairy tale.

It was nearly midnight when I finally coaxed Oliver to sleep. 

I sat alone in the dark living room, the glow of my phone illuminating my face. I opened Instagram, mindlessly tapping through stories. 

Then, a post caught my eye. 

It was from an account Louis claimed belonged to his "best friend." 

The photo showed a man trying on a burgundy wedding tuxedo. 

The face was cropped out. But he couldn't hide the small mole on the back of his neck. 

He also couldn't hide the custom enamel cufflink on his left wrist—a piece I designed exclusively for the Ashworth family heirs. 

I zoomed in on the caption. 

“The lost muse finally returns.”

The pieces slammed together with sickening clarity. The sudden ten-day "vacation" to New York. The imaginary friend's wedding. The burner Instagram account. 

It was an elaborate, carefully orchestrated trap. 

Louis was shipping me across the ocean so he could openly parade Barbara around London and finalize their "ceremonial" marriage. 

He wanted me out of the way. 

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped my lips. Ten years of my life, traded for a cheap setup.

I opened my contacts and found Gabriel Sterling. 

Gabriel was an internationally renowned fashion photographer. He was also my oldest friend in the industry. For months, he had been begging me to move to New York and launch a joint independent label with him. 

But I always said no. I had a husband and a son, and all I wanted was a stable life.

Not anymore.

I typed a quick message: “Gabriel. Are you still looking for a partner for the NY brand? I’m in.”

His reply came three seconds later. “Pack your bags. I’ll have the contracts ready by the time you land.”

Next, I opened my email and drafted a message to a ruthless divorce attorney based in Manhattan. 

If Louis wanted his white moonlight back, he could have her. But I was taking my son with me.

The grandfather clock chimed 2 AM when the front door clicked open. 

Louis stumbled into the foyer. He was reeking of whiskey and a sickly-sweet floral perfume that I never wore. 

He slurred a curse as he tripped over the rug, barely catching himself against the console table. 

"You're back late," I said, my voice flat. 

He jumped, squinting into the darkness. "Vivian? Jesus, you scared me. Why are you sitting in the dark?"

I stood up and walked toward him. The closer I got, the more obvious the messy red lipstick smudge on his collar became. 

He was completely empty-handed. 

"Where are the lemon tarts?" I asked, crossing my arms. 

"What tarts?"

"The ones you promised Oliver."

He waved his hand dismissively, letting out a sloppy laugh. "Oh, c'mon. The bakery was closed. It's late. Why are you still up? Waiting for me?" He smirked. "You bad girl, always giving me a hard time."

He smiled at me, then turned and walked straight into the bathroom.

In the past, he would always hug me first.

My heart sank.

I left him struggling to take off his shoes and walked up the stairs. 

As I reached the second-floor landing, a muffled sound stopped me in my tracks. 

It was coming from Oliver's room. 

I pushed the door open. The room was dark, except for the harsh glare of an iPad screen lighting up Oliver's tear-streaked face. 

"Oliver? Why are you awake?" I rushed over, snatching the iPad from his hands. 

I looked at the screen. My breath hitched. 

It was an Instagram post from Sophie, Barbara's seven-year-old daughter. 

The photo showed Sophie twirling in a stunning, custom-made haute couture dress. In the background sat a bespoke velvet jewelry box embossed with the Ashworth family crest. 

The caption read: “Thank you to the best dad in the world for my custom couture dress! 💖”

I stared at the screen, my hands shaking. 

"Mom," Oliver sobbed, pointing at the dress in the photo. "I know that dress."

"I saw it in Dad's private sketchbook last month," Oliver cried, tears spilling over his cheeks. "He spent weeks drawing it. I thought... I thought he was making it for you."