Chapter 1 1

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Manhattan penthouse, distorting the city lights into smeared streaks of gold and gray. Erica Duffy stood motionless, her forehead resting against the cold glass. The condensation chilled her skin, grounding her against the suffocating heat of the apartment's central air.

She glanced at the simple, scratched analog watch on her wrist. It was a cheap piece she had bought at a drugstore three years ago, part of the costume.

Three a.m.

He was late. Or perhaps he was right on time, depending on which version of Dillard Bentley was out there tonight. The husband, or the man the tabloids loved.

Erica turned from the window and walked to the mahogany desk. Her movements were precise, practiced. She reached for the document she had printed hours ago. The paper felt heavy, substantial. Divorce Agreement. The words were black and sharp against the white page. She didn't read them again. She knew every clause.

She slid the papers into the bottom of her worn, nondescript leather tote, burying them beneath a polyester scarf and her wallet. Her hand trembled, just once, before she clenched her fist and forced it to stop.

The elevator chimed. A soft, cheerful ding that sounded violent in the silence of the room.

Erica smoothed her expression. She pulled the corners of her mouth up, checking the reflection in the dark window. Perfect. The invisible, unremarkable wife.

The steel doors slid open. Dillard Bentley stepped out. He brought the smell of the storm with him-damp wool, ozone, and the sharp bite of whiskey. He didn't look at her. He never did, not really. He walked past her as if she were a piece of furniture, shedding his custom suit jacket and tossing it onto the leather bench in the entryway.

Erica moved to pick it up. It was instinct. Three years of conditioning. As she lifted the fabric, the scent hit her. It wasn't just rain and whiskey. Beneath it lay the innocent, delicate scent of Lily of the Valley. It was a fragrance designed to mimic purity, a calculated choice that masked the rot beneath.

Brisa.

The name felt like a physical blow to her chest. Erica paused, her fingers digging into the expensive wool of his lapel. She stared at the back of his white dress shirt, watching the muscles of his shoulders shift as he loosened his tie.

"Water," he said. His voice was gravel, rough from smoke or shouting or whispering things he never whispered to her.

Erica turned to the kitchen. Her heels clicked on the marble, a lonely rhythm. She filled a crystal glass with ice water, the cubes cracking as the liquid hit them.

She returned and held it out. He took it without looking up. Their fingers brushed. His skin was hot, feverish. He recoiled instantly, as if she had burned him.

Dillard drained the glass in one long swallow. He set it down hard on the console table. His eyes finally swept over her, taking in the high-necked cotton nightgown that covered her from throat to ankle. His gaze was flat, bored. It was the look one gave to a tax return or a dull meeting agenda.

"Bedroom," he said.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a directive.

Erica followed him down the hall. The master bedroom was vast and gray, devoid of warmth. He didn't kiss her. He didn't touch her face. He simply took what the contract said was his. His movements were mechanical, efficient, and entirely devoid of affection. It was an exorcism of his own demons, and she was just the vessel.

When it was over, he rolled away immediately. He stood up and walked to the bathroom. The shower turned on, a heavy deluge meant to wash her off his skin.

Erica lay on the expansive mattress, staring at the ceiling. Her body ached with a dull, throbbing emptiness. She pulled the duvet up to her chin.

The water stopped. Dillard emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. He picked up his phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up his face.

For a second, the mask slipped. The corner of his mouth lifted. His eyes softened, crinkling at the edges. It was a look of such tenderness it made Erica's breath hitch. He typed a quick reply, his thumbs moving with a gentleness he never showed her.

"I am not staying," he said, dropping the phone back onto the table. "Something came up at the office."

"Okay, Dillard," she said. Her voice was steady. It didn't sound like her own.

He dressed quickly. The door clicked shut behind him. The elevator hummed, taking him back down to the world where he actually lived.

Erica sat up. The room was silent again. Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A news alert.

She picked it up. The screen glare stung her tired eyes.

Bentley Heir Spotted Late Night with Socialite Brisa Combs. Rumors of Engagement Swirl.

Below the headline was a photo. Grainy, taken through a telephoto lens, but clear enough. Dillard was shielding Brisa from the rain, his hand protectively on the small of her back. He was looking down at her with that same tenderness Erica had just seen. The timestamp was 1:45 a.m. More than an hour before he came home to use his wife. He had left her, driven across the city in the rain, just to fulfill a conjugal obligation before returning to his real life.

Erica didn't cry. The tears had dried up a year ago. She felt a cold clarity wash over her, sharper than the ice water.

She reached for her bag. She pulled out the document. She uncapped her fountain pen. The nib scratched loudly against the paper as she signed her name.

Erica Duffy.

She placed the papers on his nightstand, directly on top of his black American Express card. He couldn't miss it. Or maybe he would. He missed everything else about her.