Chapter 2

Emily Porter's POV:

A dream. It had to be a dream.

I was floating in a hazy memory, back to the day it all began.

It was five years ago.

The memory was sharp, vivid, a cruel Technicolor replay of a life that was no longer mine.

I was nineteen. That detail always stood out, a flashing neon sign in the landscape of my past. Nineteen. The exact age Christopher Kramer always preferred.

He was the king of Manhattan, the prince of Fifth Avenue, and I was just a waitress at a high-end catering event he was attending, frantically trying to balance a tray of champagne flutes that were worth more than my monthly rent.

Our eyes met across the crowded ballroom. It was a cliché, something out of a bad romance novel, but it happened. His gaze, a startlingly intense blue, cut through the noise and the glitter, and for a dizzying second, I felt like the only person in the room.

He was Christopher Kramer. I knew who he was. Everyone knew. The notorious playboy, the heartbreaker with a penchant for girls my age. A jolt of pure, unadulterated panic shot through me.

He broke away from the circle of socialites he was with and moved towards me with a predator's grace. He stopped right in front of me, his height casting a shadow over me.

"Are you even old enough to be serving these?" he asked, his voice a low, amused drawl as he plucked a glass from my trembling tray.

The rest, as they say, was history. A history that felt like a whirlwind, a fantasy spun from gold and starlight.

He pursued me with a relentless, single-minded focus that was both terrifying and utterly captivating.

He sent a vintage Rolls-Royce to pick me up from my community college classes, much to the bewilderment of my classmates. He filled my tiny apartment with so many flowers that it looked like a jungle. He took me to Paris for our third date, simply because I'd once mentioned I liked the way the city looked in movies.

He catered to my every whim, remembered every offhand comment. He learned that I hated cilantro, that I loved old black-and-white films, that I secretly wished I'd learned to play the piano. The next day, a Steinway grand piano was delivered to my apartment, along with the city's most sought-after instructor.

The world saw a playboy finally settling down. I saw a man who seemed to have found his missing piece.

His mother, Agnes Graves, the cold, pragmatic matriarch of the Kramer family, disapproved. She saw me as a commoner, a gold-digger, a temporary distraction. But Christopher stood firm. He threatened to renounce his inheritance, to walk away from the empire, if she didn't bless our union.

At our wedding, under an arch of a thousand white roses, he looked into my eyes and made a vow that echoed in the grand cathedral.

"They all said I was incapable of love, Emily," he'd whispered, his thumb tracing my cheek. "They were right. Until I met you. You are not just another girl. You are the only girl. The last girl. From this day forward, my world begins and ends with you."

I believed him. God, how I believed him.

The five years of our marriage were a testament to that promise. He was the perfect husband. He never missed a single anniversary or birthday. He would fly across the world just to have dinner with me if I was feeling lonely. He had a ring custom-made, with the GPS coordinates of the spot in Times Square where he proposed engraved on the inside. "So you never forget the way home," he'd said.

My life was a fairy tale.

And then my father got sick.

Christopher had been my rock. He was the one who found Iris Lindsay, the perfect match. He sponsored her, paying for her tuition, her housing, her every conceivable need.

"We have to keep the donor happy and healthy, Em," he'd explained, his arm wrapped around me. "She's our angel. We owe her everything."

I hadn't questioned it. I was too consumed with worry for my father to notice the subtle shifts.

Like how Christopher's calls to check on Iris became more frequent than his calls to check on me.

How he started buying her gifts-a new laptop "for her studies," a designer wardrobe because "she shouldn't feel out of place at NYU," a new car so "she could get to her appointments safely."

He started spending more time with her, taking her to dinners, to museums, to the opera. "I have to keep her spirits up," he'd say. "A happy donor is a healthy donor."

My husband, who once dropped a multi-million-dollar deal to fly home because I had a cold, was now canceling our dinner dates because Iris had a headache. The flowers that used to fill our penthouse were now being delivered to her dorm room. The quiet evenings we spent watching old movies were replaced by him rushing off because Iris was "feeling anxious" about the donation.

The change was so gradual, so cleverly disguised under the cloak of concern for my father, that I almost didn't see it. Almost.

A cold dread began to coil in my stomach. The fairy tale started to feel like a cage.

One night, I finally confronted him. "Christopher, don't you think this is... a little much? You're spending all your time with her."

He had looked at me, his expression one of gentle admonishment. "Emily, don't be ungrateful. She's saving your father's life. Isn't her happiness the most important thing right now?"

He was right, wasn't he? How could I be so selfish? I was ashamed. I apologized and buried my doubts. I chose to trust him.

The trust was my undoing.

The memory of that night, of his voice on the phone with her, was a lie. He hadn't just been comforting her. I had asked him then, my voice shaking, "What about all your promises? You said I was different."

He had sighed, a sound of pure exasperation. "You were different, Emily. You were nineteen. Pure, untouched. But you're not nineteen anymore. Iris is. Do you see the difference?"

"So it was never about me?" I'd whispered, the words like glass shards in my throat. "It was just about my age?"

"Don't be dramatic," he'd snapped. "I have to take care of Iris. I owe her. We both do."

The lie was so perfect, so complete. He had used my father's life as a shield for his betrayal.

The sound of a key in the lock jolted me from the dream, from the past. I opened my eyes to the sterile white of a hospital ceiling. The funeral home had called an hour ago. My father' s arrangements were made. He was gone. The gaping hole in my chest was a physical ache, a void where my heart used to be.

Christopher hadn't been here. Not once since I collapsed. He'd been with Iris.

I knew this because I'd scrolled numbly through her Instagram feed. A new post, just thirty minutes ago. A picture of her hand, resting on the steering wheel of Christopher's Bentley. On her wrist was a new diamond bracelet. And in the background, out of focus, was Christopher's profile as he drove, a gentle smile on his lips.

The caption read: "Someone's taking me on a surprise trip to get my mind off things. Feeling so blessed. #grateful #bestdayever"

I liked the post. My finger moved on its own, a ghost in the machine.

My phone buzzed with a message. It was from Christopher.

"Iris is still a little shaken from the whole hospital ordeal. I'm taking her to the Hamptons for a few days to relax before the rescheduled surgery. Don't worry, I'll handle everything."

I stared at the message, a bitter, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat. He didn't know. He had been so busy comforting his new toy that he hadn't even checked. He didn't know that there would be no rescheduled surgery. He didn't know my father was dead.

He didn' t know that his neglect, his utterly selfish, self-absorbed betrayal, had killed the kindest man I had ever known.

He thought this was just another bump in the road. Another problem his money could solve.

He was wrong.

This was the end.

With a calmness that terrified me, I swiped open my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called in five years.

"Agnes Graves' office."

"It's Emily," I said, my voice flat and lifeless. "Tell her I want a divorce. I'll sign anything. I don't want a single penny. I just want out."

"Mrs. Kramer," the assistant sounded shocked. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," I said. "Tell her he can have his nineteen-year-olds. He can have them all."

I hung up and looked at the divorce papers Agnes's lawyer had emailed me within the hour. The efficiency was chilling, but I was grateful for it.

The printer hummed in the corner of the empty hospital business center, spitting out the document that would sever my life from his. Each page felt like a tombstone.

I picked up a pen. My hand was steady.

This wasn't just an ending.

This was the beginning of my war.