"You're really going through with the divorce?"

Elena had gotten wind of the news from somewhere and rushed to the studio, cornering Paige with a barrage of questions. "Seriously, you're just handing Dylan to Nancy on a silver platter? You might as well gift-wrap him for her! That woman's going to be laughing in her sleep! Have you lost your mind?"

Paige was still revising a design draft—endless rounds of changes that never satisfied the client. The truth was simple: they wanted champagne quality on a beer budget, expecting top-tier jewelry at bargain prices. Impossible. So she'd been going back and forth, tweaking proposals, buying time. She pinched the bridge of her nose and stole a moment to answer. "The divorce is already final. Too late for regrets."

"You—!" Elena clutched her chest like she was about to have a heart attack. "Look, everyone knows Nancy's the one obsessed with Dylan. He only sees her as a little sister. Even if something could happen between them, as long as you stayed married, you'd be the legal wife. Not even Nancy could touch that!"

Paige kept her eyes on the screen, saying nothing.

Elena stared at her unnervingly calm expression and wanted to scream. "You're telling me you walked away just like that? No regrets? You two seemed so happy together—"

She asked because she'd seen them. The way they'd been—picture-perfect, the kind of couple that made others envious. How could Nancy have destroyed that?

"We got along because there was no love." Paige's voice was flat. "He didn't love me. Any woman would've served the same purpose. I refuse to spend my life shackled to someone whose heart was never mine."

Elena's eyes went wide. "He actually said he didn't love you?"

"He got drunk once." Paige paused. "The name he called out wasn't mine."

Elena fell silent. She hadn't known. Paige had never mentioned it. Looking at her friend's face—still as water, betraying nothing—she let out a long breath. "I should've talked you out of it back then. That whirlwind marriage..."

Paige said nothing.

She remembered how it started. A cocktail party. Too much champagne. She'd mistaken Dylan for her driver and demanded he take her home. He did. Somehow, they'd exchanged contacts. A month of late-night messages, and feelings had crept in—unexpected, undeniable. She'd been the one to suggest dinner. He'd accepted. A few drinks later, she'd been the one to invite him upstairs.

One thing led to another.

The night had been... compatible.

She'd woken the next morning with a flicker of regret. A moment of weakness, even if it was her first time with a man. But they were both adults, both willing. She could own her choices. So she'd told him they could pretend it never happened.

The words had barely left her lips when he'd looked at her, utterly serious. "Some things can't be undone. And I don't think you believe they can either."

Then he'd proposed.

She'd said no.

"Then I want you to take responsibility for me," he'd said, his expression grave, no trace of humor.

She'd married him anyway. What was the phrase? Blinded by desire. She'd been under some kind of spell.

A hasty trip to the registrar's office. No ceremony. No banquet. No celebration with friends. Low-key to the point of secrecy—only a handful of people on her side knew.

Elena was one of the few.

After the wedding, they'd bought a place at Maple Grove. Dylan had insisted on paying; she'd refused to let him cover everything and handled the renovations herself, dipping into her own savings.

Objectively, he was ideal husband material. Attentive. Considerate. A respectable career. No vices. Gifts on every holiday, never missing a beat. Unlike other men, he wasn't careless about hygiene—if anything, he bordered on obsessive. And in the bedroom, they'd been perfectly matched. She couldn't have found a single flaw if she'd tried.

She'd even thought: This could work. This could be my life.

She'd never wanted children. But with him, the thought had surfaced—a baby, their baby.

When she'd mentioned it, his eyes had gone cold in an instant. "You're still young. Practically a child yourself. There's no rush."

Fine.

Fair enough.

She'd dropped the subject.

Then came the late nights. The business trips that stretched longer and longer. Months of this—until the whispers started. Anonymous messages on social media. Your husband's seeing someone else. Get out while you can.

At first, she'd dismissed them as pranks. A man like Dylan was bound to have a past. Former flames with grudges. Nothing more.

But earlier this year, he'd returned from a trip with traces she couldn't ignore. Another woman's perfume clinging to his collar. A phone call in the dead of night—she'd answered it.

That was when she'd learned the truth.

Dylan had married her to spite someone else. He'd never intended to build a life with her.

And that someone was Nancy.

A man like that wasn't worth holding onto.

Besides, these past few years hadn't been a total loss.

Dylan's body was exceptional—lean, sculpted, every line precise. Sleeping with a man like that? No regrets there.

When she framed it that way, it didn't sting quite as much.

As for whatever was between him and Nancy—she was done digging.

Paige had given that marriage real emotion. The divorce was final, but part of her soul had been carved out with it.

Elena watched her friend's carefully constructed composure crack at the edges, revealing the devastation beneath. Her heart ached. "Forget him. Trash belongs with trash—let him have his scheming little princess. We don't want him. You hear me, Paige? Don't you dare be sad over this."

"I'm not sad." Paige's voice was steady. "I'm just grateful we never had kids."

Her childhood hadn't been kind. At ten, her parents divorced. Custody went to her father, who promptly handed her off to a nanny while he remarried and started a new family—complete with new children. At least he'd kept her financially comfortable. By eighteen, when she'd started university, she'd stopped taking his money. Now they met once a year, maybe twice, for obligatory holiday dinners. Otherwise, radio silence.

That was partly why she and Dylan had skipped the wedding festivities.

Elena knew the history. Her heart twisted. "You'll be fine. Three-legged frogs are hard to find, but men with two legs? Everywhere. You've got the looks, the money—you think you'll have trouble finding someone?"

Paige couldn't help it. A laugh escaped—short, surprised.

Seeing that smile, Elena relaxed a fraction. "So what's the plan? What about the place you two shared?"

"I'm moving out of Maple Grove. As for the apartment..." Paige shook her head. "I won't be living there again. I'll sell it. Don't you have a friend in real estate? Think she could handle it for me?"

"Consider it done." Elena thumped her chest. "Leave it to me—I'll have good news for you before you know it!"

Paige returned to Maple Grove to move out. After sorting through everything, she realized she didn't have much—just a few large boxes and she was done. What remained were Dylan's things. He hadn't left much either; she'd already taken inventory. Most of it was office supplies, but she was terrified of accidentally discarding some important document. After much deliberation, she decided to call him and ask him to come collect his belongings.

The call connected. But it wasn't Dylan who answered.

It was Nancy.

"Hello, who is this?"

Paige's breath caught. No sound came out.

After a moment, the voice on the other end said, "I know who you are. Paige, right?"

Paige didn't deny it. Her tone stayed level. "Yes. I'm looking for Dylan."

"He's not available. Whatever you need, you can tell me."

Paige bit her lip. Deep down, she was nowhere near as calm as she appeared. She still cared—she was just pretending not to.

"Ms. James," Nancy continued, "if you're still harboring any ideas, I'd suggest you drop them. The divorce papers are signed. What, having second thoughts? Want to take it back?"

"I grew up with Dylan. I know him—really know him. Do you? Did he ever take you home to meet his family during your marriage? No? Want to know why? Because they would never accept you. That's why he never brought you."

"I was the one who rejected him back then. He found you out of spite. You were the mistake. And after three years, it's time to correct it. So stop contacting him. And stop making excuses to reach out!"

Silence.

Paige truly didn't know much about his family background. She'd brought it up before, but her own family situation was complicated. She hadn't told either of her parents about the marriage. As for his side—her own insecurities had kept her from asking, and he'd never volunteered. So it had simply... never come up.

Nancy hung up.

Paige didn't call back. She took a moment to steady herself, then contacted Dylan's driver and asked him to come handle the belongings.

"Hi, Timothy. This is Paige. When you have a moment, could you come by and pick up Dylan's things?"

"Ms. James, I'll need to check with Mr. Farley first."

She could hear the hesitation in his voice. She understood. "Then could you just give me an address? I'll ship everything over. That way you won't have to make the trip."

"Well..."

"Is that not possible?"

"Without Mr. Farley's permission, I can't give out the address. I hope you understand, Ms. James—it's a matter of his privacy." Tim's words were polite, carefully measured, as if he was afraid of offending her.

He's worried I'll use it to keep bothering Dylan.

"Alright. I understand. Please ask him, then."

Before long, Tim called back, his tone still courteous. "Ms. James, Mr. Farley says it's all unimportant. If you don't want to keep it, you can throw it away."

For some reason, Paige felt her heart clench. "Those were his exact words?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I understand. Sorry to have troubled you."

She hung up briskly, but something still felt off. She'd only been pretending to be unbothered. Three years of marriage—there had been feelings. If there hadn't been, she wouldn't have shared a bed with him all those days and nights.

She disposed of Dylan's things and left Maple Grove.

After that, Paige moved back into the apartment she'd lived in before the marriage. On her very first night there, she received a call from Dylan.

She froze, thinking she'd misread the screen. Why would he be calling now? She hesitated for a few seconds, then answered. Her voice came out soft, barely above a whisper.

"Hello?"

"You called me earlier. What did you need?"

Dylan's low, rich voice came through the speaker.

Paige kept her tone flat. "It's nothing now."

"I sent Timothy to Maple Grove this morning."

"..."

"You're selling the house?"

Word travels fast.

She didn't bother hiding it. The house was hers now; what she did with it was her business. Besides, she'd done nothing wrong in this marriage. She had nothing to be secretive about.

"Yes. I'm selling it."

"Where are you staying?"

"I have a place."

"You don't like Maple Grove? You used to say you loved the environment there." His tone was neither cold nor warm.

She had said that once—just an offhand comment. She hadn't expected him to remember.

She took a deep breath. "I don't anymore."

A pause. Then: "I called you earlier to ask what to do with the things you left at Maple Grove. It's been handled now. If there's nothing else, we don't need to contact each other again."

"Suit yourself."

Was it her imagination, or did Dylan sound... annoyed?

No. Probably just her imagination.

...

Dylan was the one who ended the call. He tossed his phone onto the desk, his gaze darkening. The air around him grew heavy, suffocating. He pressed pale fingers to the bridge of his nose, a nameless irritation coiling tight in his chest.

Timothy Dickerson stood nearby, his eyelid twitching. The pressure in the room was palpable—and its source needed no explanation.

Especially after this morning. Tim had gone to Maple Grove and discovered the house was already listed for sale online. He'd reported it to Mr. Farley immediately.

Mr. Farley had not seemed pleased.

Why he wasn't pleased—Tim didn't dare ask.

Dylan lit a cigarette and drew on it slowly, his brow furrowed low. Smoke curled around his sharp features, obscuring his expression, making his thoughts impossible to read.

"Sir, about the house—how would you like to handle it? Should I speak with Ms. James?"

Dylan flicked ash from the cigarette. "No need. The house is hers now. What she does with it is her business."

Tim said nothing more.

A moment passed. Dylan's impatient expression smoothed over, though no real emotion replaced it.

"Do you know where she's staying these days?"

"I believe she moved back to her old apartment." Tim wasn't entirely certain. "I heard it from Ms. Whitney."

Worried that Dylan might not remember who that was, he added, "Ms. Whitney—she's Ms. James's friend."

Dylan looked up. His gaze turned cold, as if the clarification had been unnecessary.

Tim fell silent.

True to her word to Nancy, Paige hadn't contacted Dylan again. She threw herself into work and finally finished the design drafts. The client tried to squeeze out a few more freebies, but this time she held firm—no more revisions within this budget. Any changes would cost extra.

The moment money came up, the client backed off and grudgingly paid the balance.

But not without a parting shot: "It's not like you're some famous designer. Your rates are ridiculous—practically luxury-brand prices."

Paige didn't lose her temper. She patiently explained that this was standard pricing for bespoke jewelry. No matter how she framed it, the client still thought she was overcharging. The woman lingered at the studio, haggling and complaining, before finally leaving.

The studio wasn't Paige's alone—she'd started it with a friend who was now home with a newborn and rarely came in. So lately, Paige had been running everything herself.

That evening, she had a dinner engagement organized by Cara Chavez, a former client. Normally, Paige avoided these things whenever possible. She wasn't built for networking. But Mrs. Chavez had been so insistent that refusing felt impossible.

She had no idea Nancy would be there.

The moment Nancy spotted Paige, a contemptuous smile curled her lips. "Cousin, did you invite her?"

"I did! Let me introduce everyone—this is Paige. She's a jewelry designer. She made a set for my wedding."

"Oh, that set. I thought it looked familiar." Nancy pointed at Paige in front of everyone. "Didn't you copy some big brand for my cousin's pieces? The design looks awfully similar."

Paige hadn't come looking for a fight. If she'd known Nancy would be here, she would have stayed home. Technically, this was their first time meeting face-to-face—they'd never crossed paths before. Not once.

"That can't be right." Mrs. Chavez's expression wavered with uncertainty. "Paige has a decent reputation. She wouldn't do something like that... would she?"

Despite her words, doubt had already crept into the way she looked at Paige.

Paige's fingers tightened at her sides. "Mrs. Chavez, the set I designed for you wasn't copied from anyone. I don't do that."

Someone pulled out photos, and the whispers began.

"No wonder it seemed so familiar—like I'd seen it somewhere. Now that I look, the style really is too similar."

"These days, any nobody calls herself a designer. Cara, I think you got scammed. This so-called designer is clearly second-rate. You should've gone with an established brand—at least there's accountability."

Sharp, judgmental gazes fixed on Paige. They believed Nancy without question. Paige didn't stand a chance.

She knew Nancy was doing this deliberately—stirring up trouble for the sake of it. "If you think I copied a brand, feel free to provide evidence. Or have it verified by a professional agency."

There was no point staying. Paige turned to Mrs. Chavez. "I'm sorry this evening took such an unpleasant turn. If you have concerns, you're welcome to get an official assessment or take legal action. If I'm guilty, I'll accept the consequences. But if I'm not, I won't admit to something I didn't do."

"Again, my apologies. I'll see myself out."

She turned and walked away. She'd barely made it out the door when Nancy followed, intercepting her in the corridor.

"Paige. Did I say you could leave?"

Paige stopped and fixed her with a cold stare. "Is there something else?"

"That's your attitude?"

"What attitude would you prefer?"

"Shouldn't you at least explain yourself to my cousin first?"

Paige studied her. Flawless makeup. Beautiful. Every hair in place. Skin smooth as porcelain. The clothes and jewelry she wore cost more than most people earned in months. She practically glowed.

Looking at her, it was easy to see why men couldn't forget Nancy Kaufman.

And yet...

Paige's lips curved. A slow, unexpected smile.

"Are you jealous of me?"

"Jealous of what?" Nancy almost laughed at the absurdity.