2

Chapter 2

By the time the car delivered me back to the penthouse, night had fallen.

The private elevator opened directly into our home—fifteen thousand square feet of steel and glass overlooking Central Park. I walked inside and the lights automatically illuminated, the entire space quiet as a meticulously designed fortress.

This was where I'd lived for five years.

This was also where I'd personally designed the security systems, the offshore account structures, and the corporate shell companies that protected Marcus's assets.

I removed my coat without calling for the household staff.

I didn't need them watching me pack.

I went to the study first.

The safe opened with a soft electronic beep, like a brief sigh. Inside were some old things—worthless in monetary terms, but they shouldn't remain here.

The first business card.

This was from Marcus's first real investor meeting. Not the banks that had laughed him out of their offices, but the one I'd arranged through my family's connections—though he never knew that. He'd been so nervous that day his hands were shaking. I'd coached him for weeks on the pitch, on the financials, on how to project confidence he didn't yet feel.

That card was never used again.

Because he no longer needed anyone to teach him how to command a boardroom.

I placed it in the box.

Next were the ledgers. The earliest pages bore my handwriting, recording transactions that hadn't yet gone public, market opportunities marked in pencil with his scrawled notes beside them.

Back then we'd sit at a small table in his studio apartment, staying up until dawn working through a half-million-dollar deal.

Now, half a million wasn't enough to buy Victoria's monthly shopping sprees.

I closed the ledger.

In the walk-in closet, I didn't take much.

The designer gowns, jewelry, the custom Chanel suit his mother had given me at our wedding—I left them all. Those things belonged to "Mrs. Steele," not to me.

I only took a few casual outfits and an old watch.

He'd bought it for me the first time his company turned profitable. Not expensive—a vintage Cartier from an estate sale—but it was the first time after money came in that he didn't immediately think about expansion, acquisitions, or market domination.

That day he'd told me: "There'll be better ones later."

There were, eventually.

Just never for me.

I sat on the sofa. My phone lit up.

Instagram notification.

Victoria's account.

I opened it.

A diamond ring filled the entire screen. The center stone was at least ten carats, flawless, set in platinum. The caption was brief—

"Finally protected by someone who understands my worth."

The location tag showed a penthouse in Tribeca.

I recognized that address. Marcus had "acquired" it eighteen months ago; nobody mentioned anymore what happened to the tech founder who'd owned it before bankruptcy.

I checked the ring's estimated value.

$4.2 million.

I closed my phone without looking further.

Today was our wedding anniversary.

The fifth year, yet he seemed to have forgotten.

I made myself pasta using ordinary tomato sauce. The water boiled quickly. As I dropped the pasta in, I heard sounds from the entrance.

Marcus was back.

He changed his shoes, walked into the kitchen, glanced at the pot.

"Anniversary dinner?" His tone was casual, like he was making a harmless joke.

I dished the pasta onto a plate without answering.

He placed a small box on the table, pushing it toward me.

"For you," he said. "Anniversary gift."

I glanced at him, then opened it anyway.

A necklace.

The chain was so delicate it was nearly invisible, with a few small diamonds set in the center—small, exquisite, and expensive enough—if you were giving it to an ordinary woman.

I closed the box.

"Let's go out to eat," he said. "I made a reservation."

I looked up at him.

"Victoria's ring is very beautiful," I said.

His expression froze for an instant, then quickly recovered.

"She was frightened," he said. "She needed reassurance."

"So you gave her an expensive diamond ring, but on our anniversary you give your wife this small, delicate gift?" I held up the box, unable to stop myself from laughing.

"Isabelle, I'm tired. I barely managed to clean up the mess and carved out time to come back and have dinner with you. Don't make me regret it."

Suddenly, his phone rang.

He answered, listened for a few seconds, his gaze falling on me.

I spoke before he could.

"Go ahead," I said. "Do what you need to do."

He was visibly stunned.

This was the first time I hadn't objected, hadn't argued when this happened.

He came over and embraced me.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, his tone solemn, like he was promising a business deal.

I didn't respond.

After he left, the house grew quiet again.

I took the necklace out of the box and looked at it.

The small diamonds flashed once under the light, then dimmed.

I walked to the trash can and dropped it in.

No hesitation.

I didn't need this expired thing.

And I certainly didn't need evidence that he'd "remembered."