Chapter 1

My finger hovered over the 'send' button.

A significant chunk of my savings, earnings from architectural work before Tori, was about to vanish.

It was for a tip.

An anonymous tip to a European talent agency about Julian Vance.

A fake, long-term contract in Monaco.

I pressed send.

Julian, Tori's latest amusement, would be gone.

I hoped it would bring some peace.

I was wrong.

Tori's fury, when Julian "abandoned" her for his sudden, "lucrative" career, was a storm.

She suspected me.

Her retaliation was swift, brutal.

Not against me, not directly.

Against my parents.

A shrill ring from my phone.

A video call. Tori.

Her face was a mask of cold rage.

The screen split, showing another feed.

Auditors. In my parents' small Brooklyn living room.

Mark, my father, looking confused, scared. Sarah, my mother, trying to be brave.

A digital clock in the corner of the video feed: 59:59... 59:58...

"Unpaid property taxes," Tori's voice, smooth as ice. "Foreclosure. Funny how these things happen."

I knew they paid their taxes. Religiously.

"And Mark's pension. Frozen. Pending an investigation."

"What do you want, Tori?" My voice was hollow.

"Julian. His exact whereabouts, Ethan."

The clock ticked down. 58:30.

"He left. For a contract."

"Don't lie to me. You orchestrated this. You got rid of him."

Her voice was low, dangerous.

"I know you did it. You were always so quiet, Ethan. Too quiet. What were you thinking all those times you just stared?"

The clock. 57:15.

"My parents... they have nothing to do with this. Please, Tori. They're good people."

I could hear the desperation in my own voice.

My parents, their faces pale on the small screen.

"Are they more important than Julian?" Tori tilted her head. "He was my entertainment, Ethan. My fun. You took my fun."

Her words were a slap.

Entertainment.

Was that all he was? Was that all *I* was?

"You said you loved me," I whispered, the memory a bitter taste. Grand Central flash mobs, Times Square billboards. All for a possession.

"Julian. Now." The ultimatum, sharp and final. The clock showed 55:02.

I couldn't let them lose their home. Not Mark, the retired firefighter who ran into burning buildings. Not Sarah, the community nurse who healed others.

"Monaco," I choked out. "He's in Monaco."

"Precise?"

I gave her the hotel name I'd arranged for the fake agency to book.

"Good boy." She smiled, a terrifying, triumphant curve of her lips.

She ended the video call showing my parents.

The main screen showed her, already moving, barking orders for her private jet.

"Tori, wait! My parents! Call it off!" I yelled at the phone.

"The stop order for their financial ruin," she said, pausing at her door, "is in a safety deposit box. Midtown. The key is in the Hamptons house. Hidden. You have until that clock," she gestured vaguely, not even looking back, "runs out. Have fun."

She was gone.

The clock on my own screen, which I hadn't realized was still there, showed 53:10.

I scrambled, grabbing my keys, my mind a blank terror.

The Hamptons. Midtown. Less than an hour.

The drive was a blur of panic.

Tori's staff at the Hamptons estate were deliberately slow, obstructive. "Mrs. Sterling-Miller gave no instructions, sir."

I pushed past them, frantic, tearing through rooms she'd told me Julian favored, then rooms *I* favored.

Where would she hide a key to taunt me?

Her ridiculous walk-in jewel vault.

Behind a loose diamond display. The key.

Back to the city. Traffic. Sirens.

The bank. The safety deposit box.

The teller, agonizingly slow.

The box slid out. Inside, a single document. A release order. Stamped.

I faxed it to the numbers Tori had "helpfully" left scrawled on a notepad by the vault.

My phone rang. My mother.

"Ethan? They're leaving. The men... they just got a call. They're leaving!"

Relief washed over me, so potent I nearly collapsed.

Then Sarah's voice changed. "Ethan... your father... he's clutching his chest."

A minor heart attack, the doctors at the hospital said later. Stress-induced.

Mark lay in the hospital bed, pale but his eyes sharp. Sarah held his hand, her face etched with worry.

"That woman," Mark rasped, "she's poison, son."

He looked at me. "Remember that prenup? The one I insisted on?"

I nodded, shame washing over me for ever doubting his skepticism.

"Good. Iron-clad. Infidelity. Breakdown of marriage. Substantial settlement. Clean divorce." He coughed. "Your mother's lawyer friend knew her type."

My parents, fully aware now of Tori's casual cruelty, looked at me.

Sarah's eyes, usually so warm, were hard. "You need to leave her, Ethan. For your own sake."

A path. A way out.

The thought, once a distant fantasy, became a concrete plan.

I would gather evidence. Her affair. These financial attacks.

I would disappear.