"Go back to the office," I told the assistant at the curb. "Tell Adrian you lost me in traffic."

I turned my back on him and flagged down a yellow cab outside the terminal.

The ride to the Upper East Side passed in a blur of gray concrete and honking horns. I punched my code into the keypad of the penthouse. The heavy oak door swung inward. Central Park’s autumn canopy stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the living room in shades of gold and rust.

I had picked out the velvet sofa. I had chosen the imported hardwood floors. I built this home.

The heavy thud of flesh slapping against flesh echoed down the hallway.

"Fuck, Adrian, you're amazing," a sweet, cloying voice moaned from the master bedroom. "Can't Scarlett satisfy you like this?"

I froze in the entryway. My fingers tightened around my leather purse strap.

"Since I started fucking you, I barely touch her," Adrian grunted. His voice carried the thick, lazy drawl of a man who had just finished. "Told her my dick was broken. Medical condition."

"You lied to her?" she giggled.

"I had to," he chuckled, the bedsprings creaking as he shifted. "Except for that one night two months ago. I needed her ID to transfer that downtown apartment to your name."

"So you played the drunk husband?"

"I gave her a quick fuck," Adrian sneered. "She handed over the documents the next morning. She actually believed my libido was cured."

"Is she pitiful?" the woman asked.

"She gets the title of Mrs. Cross," Adrian replied smoothly. "Now I need to compensate you. You're too fucking kind. Want your husband to give you his life?"

I leaned against the cold wall of the foyer.

"You faked a medical condition," I whispered to the empty air.

Six months ago, he had cried in my arms. He handed me a forged doctor's note. *Hypoactive sexual desire disorder.* I spent weeks researching specialists. I bought new lingerie. I blamed myself.

Two months ago, when he finally pushed me into the mattress, I thought my patience had saved our marriage.

He just wanted real estate for his whore. And that single, calculated night planted a child in my womb.

The October sun beat against the glass windows, but I shivered violently. Ice coated my bones.

I walked into the living room and sat on the velvet sofa. I stared at the clock on the wall.

Sixty minutes passed.

The bedroom door clicked open.

Adrian strolled into the hallway, his arm wrapped tightly around a petite blonde. Celeste.

She wore my emerald silk nightgown. The lace hem dragged across the floorboards.

She spotted me on the sofa. Her eyes went wide.

"Ah!" Celeste shrieked.

She jumped away from Adrian. Tears instantly flooded her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in heavy drops.

"Mrs. Cross!" she cried.

She crumpled onto the rug, one hand pressed to her mouth as her breathing turned ragged and theatrical.

"It's my fault," she gasped. "I shouldn't be here. I thought you'd boarded the honeymoon flight."

Her shoulders shook. She folded in on herself, trembling as though she might faint, then reached toward me with an unsteady hand.

"Don't blame Adrian," she pleaded. "I never wanted to ruin your marriage, Scarlett. I only wanted to be part of his life."

"Celeste!" Adrian yelled.

He dropped to his knees and hauled her against his chest. He cradled her face, pressing his lips frantically against her tear-wet skin.

"Didn't I tell you never to hurt yourself?" he whispered, his voice thick with panic. "My heart fucking aches seeing you like this."

He snapped his gaze to me. The tenderness vanished, replaced by a cold, hard glare.

"You scared her," he accused.

I stared at him.

"I knew you wouldn't just leave," he spat, his face twisting in annoyance. "You came back to ambush us. Are you happy now? You threw your fit. You made a scene. Do you feel better?"

I hadn't spoken a single syllable since I walked through the front door.

A laugh escaped my throat. A short, mocking sound that scraped against the silence of the room.

Adrian blinked. His hostility dialed back slightly. He released his grip on Celeste and stood up, walking toward the center of the room.

"Fine," he sighed, assuming the tone of a weary mediator. "You're both important to me. I'm not choosing between my wife and the woman who makes me happy."

He shoved his hands into his tailored slacks.

"From now on, the three of us will live here together."

"Together," I repeated.

"Yes," he confirmed. "And there is a charity gala this afternoon. You're coming with me."

"Am I?"

"Celeste is attending too," he instructed smoothly. "It's her first time at a high-society event. You're going to walk behind her."

"Walk behind her."

"You will hold the train of her gown," Adrian commanded. "You will make sure she doesn't trip. You will support her."

The sheer insanity of his demand settled over the room. He wanted his wife to play maid to his mistress in front of Manhattan's elite.

"She doesn't know anyone in our circle," he explained, misreading my silence. "You know everyone. You'll introduce her."

"As your mistress?" I asked.

"As my companion," he corrected sharply. "Don't use ugly words, Scarlett. You're the wife. Act like it. Show some grace."

"Grace."

"She looks up to you," he insisted. "She wore your nightgown because she admires your taste. You should be flattered."

I looked at the emerald silk pooling around Celeste's knees. I thought of the clinic paper burning a hole in my coat pocket. I thought of the controlling voting trust my lawyer had just executed.

"I'll hold her dress," I agreed softly.

Adrian smiled, looking entirely triumphant.

"See? That wasn't so hard," he praised. "Go get ready. Wear something understated. Let her shine today."

"Okay," I said.

I kept my face perfectly blank. My eyes felt like frozen lakes, completely devoid of the love I had carried for twenty-eight years. Let him bring his mistress to the gala. Let him parade her around the city.

He had no idea I was already planning his funeral.