Chapter 2

"A burn." My voice was colder than Lake Michigan in winter.

His hand stopped midair. A flicker of suspicion crossed those deep brown eyes—eyes I once would have walked through fire for.

But he couldn't see through me.

I wasn't the naive music school girl from four years ago anymore. I'd learned to smile perfectly at Moretti family banquets, to raise my glass gracefully amid blood and betrayal. I'd learned how to swim alive through a tank of sharks.

"I got you a gift." I lifted a blue gift box from the couch and slid it across the table toward him.

It was light.

Inside were our wedding photos, cut into a thousand pieces. Not one larger than a fingernail.

Nico took the box, his expression genuinely surprised. "What's the occasion? Did I forget something?"

He didn't open it. Set it casually on the coffee table. Reached for my face again.

I stepped back, my smile flawless.

"You really don't remember, Nico? Today is our fourth wedding anniversary."

His expression froze.

Like someone had slapped him in public.

I saw the panic flash through his eyes. A caught con man trying to play innocent. A terrible performance.

"God, Olivia, I—" He reached for me. "Family business has been insane, I completely—"

"It's fine."

I dodged his hand. I didn't want another woman's scent on my skin. That cheap vanilla smell turned my stomach.

"No, it's not fine." He grabbed me, his grip tightening. "We have to celebrate. The horse farm. Right now. You love it there. We can ride, watch the sunrise, like we used to."

Like we used to?

The last time we rode together was three years ago. Back then he'd kiss the shell of my ear and call me his queen. Now he couldn't even remember our anniversary.

I nodded. "Alright. Sounds nice."

I had to keep playing the wife who knew nothing. Just a few more days of the act.

Four in the morning. Nico drove the Escalade, playing our wedding song—Etta James, "At Last."

"Baby, I'm sorry I forgot." He glanced at me. "You know how much I love you."

I didn't answer.

My hand brushed the storage compartment. Touched fabric.

A cheap black lace thong fell out.

Not mine.

I smiled, picked it up, and spun it on my fingertip.

"Nico," my voice dripped honey, "you left your work files in my car."

He glanced over. The steering wheel nearly slipped from his hands.

"That's not— I mean— maybe the car wash guy—"

"The car wash guy wears lace thongs?" I tossed it onto his lap. "Classy taste. Next time, tell her to wear something more expensive. At least live up to the Moretti family standard."

He said nothing.

We reached the horse farm at dawn.

We rode for half an hour. Nico played the devoted husband, snapping photos of me on horseback, loudly praising my form, pointing at the sunrise and spouting cliché romance. Like a third-rate actor.

A stable hand followed along with the act. "Mr. Moretti, you spoil your wife rotten. You make other men jealous."

My face stayed blank.

His phone rang. Guns N' Roses, "Sweet Child O' Mine."

"Sorry, baby. Emergency family business." He planted a quick kiss on my forehead and galloped away.

I slipped back to the car.

I'd synced his cloud account to a backup tablet three months ago. Every text, every photo, every time that little bitch sent her location—I got a copy.

The screen glowed. The chat log was updating in real time.

Little Wildcat: Miss you, Daddy... can we try that new position tomorrow night? With the new toy?

Nico: Of course. Guess last time didn't fuck you hard enough.

Little Wildcat: You don't like that I'm insatiable? I'll wear your favorite black lace set. Promise to make you happy.

Nico: I'll be watching for the show.

Messages kept flooding in. Dirty. Explicit. Planning the next rendezvous.

Tonight. The Peninsula Hotel. Presidential suite. Champagne and red roses already ordered.

When Nico returned to me, he was the faithful husband again.

"For a second there I didn't see you. I panicked." He rode closer and took my hand. "Thought you'd left me."

My stomach wrenched.

Bile rose in my throat.

"Olivia? You okay?" He frowned. "You look pale."

I couldn't hold it in anymore.

I shoved the car door open, stumbled out, and dropped to my knees beside a bush, retching violently.

Everything in my stomach heaved, as if trying to purge the last trace of four years of marriage.

"Olivia!" He jumped out, shouting. "What's wrong with you?"

I knelt there, dry-heaving, tears mixing with the bile at the corners of my mouth.

It wasn't grief.

It was pure rage. Disgust that I'd tolerated this for so long.

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