Chapter 1

Anya Sharma smiled at the screen.

Marcus Thorne's face filled her laptop, his eyes warm even through the video call.

"Napa Valley, July 7th. Are you absolutely sure, Anya?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble, comforting.

"Yes, Marcus. I'm ready," she said. Her own voice sounded steadier than she felt. July 7th. Her thirtieth birthday.

Marcus was flying in from London, a business trip. He'd be there.

She thought about it. If someone had told her a year ago, just one year, that she'd be marrying a man she'd known for only six months, she would have laughed.

If they'd said she'd be abandoning her twelve-year relationship with Ethan Miller, the boy she grew up with, the man she'd always dreamed of marrying, she'd have called them crazy. Her whole life, her dream was Ethan.

At that exact moment, Ethan Miller adjusted the knot of his custom Zegna silk tie.

He sat across from a journalist, a young woman from "Forbes 30 Under 30."

The lights were bright. The camera was rolling.

The journalist smiled. "Mr. Miller, beyond NextGen Solutions' impressive roadmap, any personal news on the horizon? You're quite the eligible bachelor in the tech scene. I hear whispers... a new penthouse in Tribeca, a rather significant 10-carat Tiffany yellow diamond won at a Sotheby's auction. Does that sound like wedding bells to you?"

Ethan leaned back, a picture of smooth confidence. "You could say that."

He paused, for effect. "A woman has dedicated her youth to me. Twelve years. I promised her I'd marry her before she turned thirty. Her thirtieth is in seven days. I don't want to keep her waiting any longer."

The journalist beamed. "That's incredibly romantic, Mr. Miller! A true testament."

The interview snippet, once released, exploded online.

#EthanMillerConfesses. #TechMogulWedding.

Anya's phone started buzzing almost immediately. Old college friends, people she hadn't spoken to in years, flooded her DMs.

"OMG Anya! He's finally doing it!"

"Remember you always joked, 'If Ethan doesn't marry me by thirty, I'm done!' So happy for you!"

"He said 'a woman who dedicated her youth to him'! That's YOU!"

Anya stared at the messages, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

She knew.

Ethan didn't mean her. He meant Brittany Hayes.

Her parents, his parents – they were old family friends from the Indian community in Edison, New Jersey. They'd all expected Anya and Ethan to marry.

She'd given up her full scholarship to Stanford for Computer Science because Ethan wanted to go to NYU for business. She went with him.

She'd quit a promising analyst job at Goldman Sachs, a job she loved, to co-found NextGen Solutions with him. She was the brains, the workhorse, paid a pittance of $65,000 a year while the company, her company really, was valued in the millions. Equity was always "coming soon."

The proof had been undeniable, crushing.

Two weeks ago. Ethan's laptop, left open on their kitchen counter. An email confirmation.

The deed to the new Tribeca penthouse. In Brittany Hayes' name.

A scanned receipt from Sotheby's. The Tiffany yellow diamond. A gift for Brittany Hayes.

July 7th.

Her thirtieth birthday.

Ethan was planning to marry Brittany Hayes on her milestone birthday. The cruelty of it was a fresh stab.

Her decision, made in the white-hot pain of that discovery, settled into a cold, hard resolve.

No more waiting. Her 30th birthday was her deadline, alright. A deadline to start her own life.

Later that evening, Ethan came back to their luxury apartment.

The lease was in NextGen's name, but Anya managed everything, from the bills to the groceries.

He was late, as usual. He seemed surprised she wasn't by the door, ready to take his jacket, ask about his day, have dinner warming.

She was on her laptop at the dining table, a glass of wine beside her. On her screen were Vera Wang gowns. She was speaking quietly to someone. "...yes, the fitting on the 5th is perfect. Thank you, Sarah."

Ethan frowned, dropping his briefcase by the door. "Didn't you see me come in? What are you doing?"

Anya looked up, her expression unreadable. "Wedding planning. Yes, I saw you."

He tossed his Zegna jacket towards her, expecting her to catch it and hang it up. She didn't move. It landed on the floor.

"The laundry room is down the hall," Anya said, her voice cool. "Or there's an app for that, I'm sure."

Ethan stared at the jacket, then at her. Irritation flickered in his eyes. "This suit is bespoke, Anya. It needs special handling."

"Then I suggest you find a specialist dry cleaner," she replied, turning back to her laptop.

He walked closer, looming over her. "What's gotten into you tonight? Bad day?"

Anya said nothing. She closed her laptop, picked up her wine, and went to her bedroom.

Their bedroom. It had felt more like her separate living space for months.

The walls were thin. She heard him on the phone a few minutes later, talking to Chad, one of his NYU fraternity buddies. His voice was loud, arrogant, carrying easily.

"Dude, you won't believe this," Ethan said, a smug laugh in his voice. "Anya's in there right now, literally picking out wedding dresses. She must've seen that Forbes piece and actually thinks I'm finally gonna marry her on her 30th. Hilarious, right?"

Anya's hand tightened on her wine glass.

"That whole interview line was just for PR, man. Build up the hype. But yeah, I *am* marrying Brittany on the 7th. Secret's out with you, I guess."

A pause. Chad must have said something.

"What, tell Anya? Are you kidding? Can't just ditch a free COO and personal assistant of twelve years, right? I'll tell her after I marry Brittany. Smooth it over. If she finds out before? Please. She's so obsessed with me, a little sweet talk, a few promises, and she'll be fine. She's a total simp. Always has been."

"Simp."

"Free COO."

The casual, unthinking cruelty of his words. It wasn't even anger. It was just... dismissal.

She remembered all the times she'd told him she loved him, her voice earnest. His replies were usually a distracted "You too," or a pat on the head.

Her heart, which had been aching, now felt like it was freezing over.

The resolve she'd found two weeks ago wasn't just resolve anymore. It was steel.