The next morning, I walked into Pinnacle Group's headquarters for the first time in months. I had built this company from nothing — a small design firm I started in college that grew into a tech-and-media conglomerate valued at over two billion dollars. But during my marriage, I'd stepped back from daily operations, letting my executive team run things while I played the role Rowan wanted: the dutiful wife. Rowan never questioned where the money came from. I told him I had a "family trust" and some "investments," and he was too busy spending it to investigate further. Now, as I stepped out of the elevator onto the top floor, every employee I passed straightened up. Some looked stunned to see me. Others quickly averted their eyes, pretending they hadn't been gossiping. Margot met me at my office door with a tablet and a grim expression. "The financial report on Thatcher Group is worse than we thought." I sat down and scanned the numbers. Rowan had been hemorrhaging money for years. His company survived solely because of contracts funneled through a subsidiary that I had quietly set up during our marriage — contracts he believed he'd earned on his own merit. Without those contracts, Thatcher Group would collapse within ninety days. "There's more," Margot continued. "Rowan applied for a fifty-million-dollar loan last week using your former marital home as collateral." "The apartment he so generously let me keep?" I asked, the irony almost too rich. "That's the one. The bank flagged it because the property is registered under your name through the trust. He forged your signature on the application." I set the tablet down slowly. "He committed fraud." "Yes, ma'am. We can report it now, or —" "Not yet." I leaned back in my chair. "Let him dig a little deeper first." Margot raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. She'd worked with me long enough to know I never acted without a plan. "One more thing," she added. "Sienna Cole posted on Instagram this morning. She's showing off an engagement ring and tagging Rowan. The caption says, 'When he knows what he wants, he doesn't waste time.' It already has ten thousand likes." I pulled up the post. The ring on Sienna's finger was a high-end design — one I recognized immediately because my company had manufactured it. It was from Pinnacle's luxury jewelry line, retailing at forty thousand dollars. Rowan had bought his new fiancée a ring that put money directly into my pocket. I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Ma'am?" "Nothing. Just appreciating the irony." I stood up and smoothed my blazer. "Cancel my afternoon meetings. I need to prepare for dinner tonight." Margot's eyes widened slightly. "The dinner with Callum Blackwood?" "Don't read into it." "I would never," she said, already reading into it. "But for the record, I had your black Valentino dress dry-cleaned last week. Just in case." I shot her a look, but she was already walking out with the faintest smile on her face. At exactly seven o'clock, I walked into La Maison, the French restaurant Callum and I used to sneak into as teenagers when we'd steal his father's car and pretend to be adults. He was already there, sitting at our old table by the window. When he saw me, he stood. And for a moment, neither of us said anything. Six years had changed him. His jaw was sharper, his shoulders broader, and there was a quiet authority in his posture that hadn't been there before. But his eyes — dark, warm, impossibly steady — were exactly the same. "You came," he said. "You knew I would." He pulled out my chair, and as I sat down, I noticed a small bouquet of white lisianthus on the table. My breath caught. "You remembered," I whispered. "Elara," he said, sitting across from me with an expression that made my chest ache, "I remember everything." Before I could respond, my phone buzzed violently. Margot's name flashed across the screen with a single line of text: *"URGENT. Rowan just found out who owns Pinnacle. He's on his way to HQ. He's bringing lawyers."*