The diamond was the size of a lie.
It glittered under the crystal chandeliers of Manhattan’s most exclusive steakhouse, throwing fractured rainbows across the white tablecloth as Dylan slid it onto my finger.
“Serena,” he said softly, his blue eyes warm, regretful, devastatingly sincere. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant. The merger’s been hell. You deserve better. Let me make it up to you.”
Around us, forks paused midair. A woman at the next table nudged her husband and whispered, “That’s Dylan Ford, right? God, he worships his wife.”
Another voice chimed in, “She’s so lucky. Total fairytale.”
Lucky.
I lowered my lashes and let them tremble. I’d practiced that in the mirror.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, my voice breaking just enough. “I know how hard you work. I’m proud of you.”
He cupped my cheek, thumb brushing under my eye as if catching a tear. I let one fall. A single, glistening drop. Oscar-worthy.
Inside, I felt nothing but ice.
Because six months ago, I’d found Olivia’s lipstick smeared on the inside of his collar.
Six months ago, I’d discovered a hotel receipt tucked into the pocket of his Tom Ford suit—two guests, king bed, champagne charged to the room.
Six months ago, I learned that the man who built his brand on being “devoted” to his wife was screwing my best friend behind my back.
And I didn’t scream.
I didn’t smash plates or throw his clothes off our balcony.
I smiled.
I waited.
Dylan squeezed my hand. “After dinner, let’s go somewhere special. Just us.”
Just us.
I almost laughed.
He excused himself a few minutes later, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Bathroom. Don’t miss me too much.”
The moment he disappeared down the hall, I counted to twenty before standing.
“Powder room?” I told the hostess with a polite smile.
The corridor was dim, lined with gold-framed mirrors and velvet wallpaper. My heels clicked softly against marble as I approached the women’s restroom.
I didn’t even have to step inside.
The sounds hit me first.
A soft gasp.
A low male chuckle I would recognize in my sleep.
“Dylan,” Olivia’s voice breathed, syrupy and breathless. “You promised me you’d talk to her.”
“I will,” he murmured. “Soon.”
“You’ve been saying ‘soon’ for months.” A rustle of fabric. A moan. “I’m tired of hiding. I want to be with you. Publicly.”
A pause.
Then his voice—cooler now. Calculating.
“Relax. I’m transferring the assets. Once everything’s secure, I’ll file. She’ll walk away with nothing. After that, you’ll have the title you want.”
My fingers dug into my palm so hard I felt skin break.
Transferring assets.
Walk away with nothing.
Olivia giggled softly. “She still thinks you’re obsessed with her. It’s almost cute.”
My heartbeat slowed instead of sped up.
Good.
Talk more.
I slipped my phone out of my clutch and hit record.
“You’re sure she suspects nothing?” Dylan asked.
“Please,” Olivia scoffed. “Serena? She cries if her latte’s wrong. She’s not built for war.”
Oh, Liv.
If only you knew.
I stepped forward and shoved the stall door open.
They froze.
Olivia’s dress was bunched around her hips. Dylan’s tie hung loose around his neck. For a split second, real panic flashed across their faces.
Then Olivia moved.
She dropped to her knees so fast it almost impressed me.
“Serena!” she sobbed. “Oh my God, this isn’t what it looks like!”
Classic.
Dylan ran a hand through his hair, switching masks in real time. “Baby—”
Olivia clutched my leg. “He came onto me. I swear. I didn’t want to hurt you. I tried to stop it!”
Tears streamed down her perfectly contoured cheeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe her.
I let my knees buckle.
Let my breath hitch.
Let the world see a broken wife.
“Dylan…” My voice cracked beautifully. “Tell me she’s lying.”
He stepped toward me like a knight stepping into battle. “It was a mistake. A stupid, drunken mistake. I cut it off. I promise. I love you.”
You love your inheritance.
You love your reputation.
You love yourself.
I collapsed into his chest and cried.
Real tears this time—but not for him.
For the girl I used to be.
While my face was buried against his shirt, I angled my phone and snapped two photos.
One of Olivia on her knees.
One of them scrambling to fix their clothes.
Evidence.
Insurance.
Weapon.
That night, back in our luxury Tribeca apartment, Dylan ordered takeout from my favorite Italian place and held me while I “shook.”
“I’ll block her,” he swore. “I’ll delete her number.”
I nodded weakly.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he added.
You already have.
When he finally fell asleep, I slipped out of bed and walked to the balcony.
The city glittered beneath me. Cold. Unforgiving. Alive.
I dialed Mia.
She answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you didn’t stab him.”
“Not yet.”