The taxi pulled up to the Mathis family's villa on Long Island.

As she stepped through the door, her mother, Helen Mathis, rushed to greet her. Her eyes immediately darted past Kate, searching the empty driveway.

Disappointment washed over Helen's face. "Where's Iverson? He really didn't come?"

Kate slipped into a practiced smile, linking her arm through her mother's. "He had an important international conference call, he really couldn't get away. He sends his best."

Her father, David Mathis, emerged from his study. He gave her a brief glance and a nod. "You're here. Good." Then his attention snapped back to the financial news channel on the television.

Kate was used to it. She is nothing more than a tool to be used, and that's all.She let go of her mother and looked toward the living room sofa.

A woman in a white Chanel tweed suit stood up. She had soft, golden waves of hair and a gentle, perfectly polite smile.

She opened her arms. "Kate. It's been so long. You look more beautiful than ever."

It was Wendy Mathis. Her sister, in name at least. Back after two years of studying art history in Europe. She seemed even more polished than before, like a pearl that had been carefully buffed to a high shine.

Kate returned the hug, her body stiff. She could smell Wendy's perfume—Gabrielle by Chanel. It was the same scent Iverson's mother, Eleanor, always wore. The thought was a small, sharp sting.

The atmosphere at dinner was tense. Helen couldn't stop praising Wendy's adventures in Europe, her new degree, her sophisticated taste.

Kate silently cut the steak on her plate, feeling like an outsider at her own family's table. It was just like high school. Wendy was always the one with better grades, the one loved by teachers and parents. And now, it seemed nothing had changed.

Wendy, as if she just remembered something, said casually, "You know, it was such a coincidence coming back. I almost couldn't get a cab at JFK, but luckily, I ran into Iverson."

The fork and knife in Kate's hand scraped loudly against the china plate. She looked up, her head snapping toward her sister.

Helen's face lit up. "Oh? Iverson went to pick you up? He told Kate he was in a meeting."

Wendy immediately put on a look of apology, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Oh, goodness, that's not what I meant. He was just in the area for business and gave me a ride. We barely spoke. He seemed incredibly busy."

Her explanation was flawless, but Kate's heart plummeted.

Iverson had lied to her. He wasn't in a meeting. He was with Wendy.

The color drained from Kate's face. She put down her silverware. "I'm not very hungry."

Helen shot her a disapproving look. "Don't be rude, Kate. Your sister just got home."

Wendy was quick to smooth things over. "Mom, don't blame her. Maybe she's not feeling well. Kate, are you alright? Are you upset that Iverson couldn't come with you?"

Kate forced a tight smile. "No, I'm just a little tired."

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. She made an excuse to step out into the garden for some air.

The cool night wind on her face did little to clear her head.

She leaned against the garden railing, pulling out her phone. She opened her chat with her best friend, Jazlyn Sherman.

She typed: "Jaz, I think I'm going to lose my mind.I'll wait for you at an upscale bar in SoHo."

A moment later, Wendy followed her out. She was holding a cashmere shawl, which she gently draped over Kate's shoulders.

"It's cold out here. Don't catch a chill," Wendy said softly, standing beside her. She looked up at the night sky. "Still angry with Iverson? He's a workaholic, you know. You shouldn't take it to heart."

Kate didn't answer. She just stared at Wendy's perfect profile, a single thought circling in her mind.

Was it really just a "ride" from the airport?

Kate practically fled the suffocating family dinner. She told the driver to take her straight to the high-end bar in SoHo she and Jazlyn frequented.

Jazlyn was already there, waiting in their usual booth. She was wearing a sexy slip dress and smoky eye makeup. When she saw Kate's pale face, she gasped dramatically.

"Oh my god, honey, you look like you just came from a funeral. What happened?"

Kate slid into the booth and downed half a glass of whiskey in one go. The liquid burned a trail down her throat.

She told Jazlyn everything—Iverson's lie, Wendy's "coincidental" encounter at the airport.

"A ride?" Jazlyn rolled her eyes. "From JFK to Long Island is nowhere near 'on the way' from Iverson's office in midtown Manhattan. What kind of is that?"

Jazlyn took Kate's cold hand, her expression turning serious. "Kate, there's something I don't know if I should tell you."

Kate's heart leaped into her throat. "What is it? Tell me."

Jazlyn hesitated, then pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her photos and handed it to Kate. "A friend of mine who works at Vogue magazine took this photo this afternoon.She was trying to get a shot of a celebrity outside The Carlyle hotel and accidentally caught them in the background."

The photo was blurry, taken from a distance, but Kate recognized them instantly.

The tall man in the perfectly tailored dark suit was Iverson. And standing next to him, in her white tweed suit, was Wendy. The background was unmistakable: the grand entrance of The Carlyle, one of New York's most exclusive hotels.

In the photo, Iverson was holding the car door open for Wendy, his body leaned slightly toward her as if he were saying something private.

Kate's breath caught in her chest. A ride from the airport... to a hotel? This was not something a "ride" could explain.

Jazlyn watched her face carefully. "My friend said... they went into the hotel together. Kate, are you okay?"

A roaring sound filled Kate's ears. The blood rushed to her head, and the bar around her faded into a blur. She couldn't hear anything.

She shot up from her seat, grabbing her purse.

"Kate! Where are you going?" Jazlyn called after her.

Kate didn't look back. She burst out of the bar, hailed the first taxi she saw, and gave the driver the address to her "home" on Fifth Avenue.

The city's neon lights streaked past the window, a blur of broken, fractured colors in her eyes.

Betrayal. Deceit. Humiliation. The emotions crashed over her like a tsunami.

She returned to the empty penthouse, shaking with a rage so profound it made her feel sick.

She stormed into Iverson's walk-in closet. The sight of his neat rows of expensive, handmade leather shoes sent a fresh wave of fury through her.

She lifted her foot and kicked.

She kicked the shoe rack with all her might. The expensive shoes tumbled to the floor in a messy, chaotic pile.

But it wasn't enough. A wave of nausea rose in her throat. She ran to the bathroom and knelt before the toilet, dry-heaving. Nothing came up.

She looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror—a tear-streaked, pathetic mess. A profound sadness washed over her.

She turned on the shower, stepping under the spray fully clothed. She let the cold water pour over her head, trying to shock herself back to sanity.

Through the rush of water, she could still hear Jazlyn's words, still see that damning photo.

Her marriage to Iverson had been a joke from the start. Now, the joke had become dirty and disgusting.

She cried under the icy stream until her body was numb.

She stumbled out of the bathroom, soaked to the bone. Her eyes landed on the wedding photo on her nightstand. In it, she was smiling brightly. Iverson, as always, looked distant. For this marriage, which she had once hoped could save her family and maybe even blossom into love, she had given up her dignity and her dreams.

A cold, desperate resolve began to form in the pit of her stomach. She collapsed onto the bed, letting the thought grow, fester, and take root.