Chapter 1

Vicky Sterling, my wife of eight years, dropped the news as casually as she' d ask for more coffee.

"Julian is moving in today, Ethan."

I looked up from my untouched plate.

The penthouse was silent, except for the distant Manhattan traffic.

"And," she continued, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips, "I'm pregnant. It's Julian's."

I felt nothing. Or maybe, I felt the last thread snap.

"You'll move into the guest room. Julian prefers the master suite."

She sipped her orange juice.

"He also has some dietary needs. No spicy foods. Strictly organic. You'll make sure the kitchen staff are aware."

This was it. The final humiliation.

For eight years, I'd been a ghost in my own life, a fixture in Vicky' s.

Her family' s buyout of my father' s architectural firm, Miller Designs, had saved it from ruin but cost me everything else.

I became a glorified employee, then a trophy husband, then just... Ethan.

Vicky gestured to a small, velvet box on the table.

"A little something for your troubles."

Inside was a ridiculously expensive watch. Another one.

I already had a drawer full of them, each marking a fresh betrayal, a deeper cut.

I remembered the first one, a Patek Philippe, given after she' d publicly ridiculed my designs at a charity gala.

I' d tried to talk to her then, to make her understand my pain.

She' d laughed. "Don't be so dramatic, Ethan. It' s just business."

"I can't live here with him, Vicky," I said, my voice flat.

She raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh? And where will you go? Back to designing dog houses?"

Her contempt was a familiar sting.

"You need me, Ethan. Miller Designs is nothing without Sterling Holdings. You are nothing without me."

She stood, smoothing her silk robe.

"The guest room. By tonight."

I walked into our-her-master bedroom.

The scent of her expensive perfume, mingled with a faint, unfamiliar cologne, Julian's, already tainted the air.

I looked at the photos on her nightstand. Us, in the early days. Before the ice set in.

I swept them into the trash can.

Then, her clothes in the walk-in closet. I didn' t touch them.

But mine, I pulled out, stuffing them into an old duffel bag.

Old sketches from college, dreams I' d forgotten I had, went in too.

My father' s tattered copy of "The Fountainhead." In.

It was time.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn' t called in years.

Olivia Hayes. My best friend from college. Now a tech founder in Austin.

She' d confessed her feelings for me once, right before graduation. I' d been too blind, too focused on a fledgling career I thought Vicky would support.

"Ethan? Is that really you?" Her voice was warm, surprised.

"Liv," I said, my own voice cracking slightly. "I'm leaving her. I'm finally doing it."

A pause, then, "Oh, Ethan. I'm so glad. Are you okay? Where will you go?"

"Can I... can I come to Austin?"

"Of course, you can! You know you always have a place here. Whenever you're ready."

Hope. A small, fragile thing, but it was there.

I zipped up the duffel bag and walked towards the front door.

Vicky was there, leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

"Really, Ethan? This little tantrum?"

She smirked. "You'll be back by dinner. You always come back."

"Not this time, Vicky."

"Let me guess, you're going to Olivia? Your little college flame? Good luck with that. She probably forgot you exist."

I tried to push past her.

"I mean it, Vicky. It's over."

I even managed a small, bitter smile.

"Good luck with Julian. And the baby. I hope you're both very happy."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You think this is a joke? You think you can just walk out?"

She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Don't be a fool, Ethan."

She suddenly let go, her expression shifting to suspicion.

"Wait a minute. What's in the bag?"

She gestured to the duffel. "Company property?"

I sighed, too tired to argue. I dropped the bag and unzipped it.

Clothes. A few books. Toiletries.

"Satisfied?"

Vicky rummaged through it, her disdain evident.

Julian Vance appeared from the hallway, preening. He was all sculpted muscle and fake tan.

He wore one of my silk robes, unbelted.

"Everything alright, darling?" he asked Vicky, his voice oozing charm.

His eyes fell on my open bag. He spotted a small, worn leather case.

"Ooh, what's this little trinket?"

He reached for it.

I slammed my hand down on the case. "Don't touch that."

It was my grandfather's Purple Heart, from Vietnam. The only thing of real value I owned.