Chapter 1

The vintage car, a custom-built 1957 convertible Mark had named "The Starlight," coughed twice and died.

It rolled to a silent stop on the side of the quiet suburban street, the polished chrome gleaming under the setting sun. Ten years. He had given it to me on our wedding day, a symbol of our supposedly timeless love. Now, it was just a beautiful piece of junk on the side of the road, much like our marriage.

I tried the ignition again. Nothing. The engine was as silent as Mark had been for the last six months.

My phone rang, but it wasn't Mark. It was an unfamiliar number.

"Is this Chloe Miller?" a man's professional voice asked.

"Yes, it is."

"My name is Mr. Henderson. I'm a lawyer. I'm calling you about a rather delicate matter regarding your husband, Mark Peterson."

A cold feeling started in my stomach. "Is he okay? Was there an accident?"

"No, nothing like that," Mr. Henderson said, his voice calm and even. "Ms. Miller, I'm legally obligated to inform you of a situation that has come to our attention. It appears your marriage to Mr. Peterson, celebrated ten years ago, was never legally registered with the state."

The world seemed to tilt. "What? That's impossible. We had a ceremony, a certificate..."

"A certificate that was never filed," he corrected gently. "The reason it wasn't filed is that Mr. Peterson was already legally married at the time. He has been, for the past decade."

I couldn't breathe. The air in the car felt thick and heavy. "Married? To who?"

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, as if he was bracing himself to deliver the final blow.

"To your sister, Ms. Miller. Brittany Miller."

The phone almost slipped from my hand. Brittany. My younger sister. The lawyer continued, his words a distant buzz. He spoke of bigamy, of me being an unwitting accessory, of potential legal consequences. But all I could hear was her name. Brittany.

I hung up without another word. I sat in the dead car, the symbol of a lie, and stared at my reflection in the dark rearview mirror. Mark' s loyalty was a sham. He had built this car for me, piece by piece, telling me it was as unique and enduring as our love. Every bolt, every stitch of the leather interior, was a lie.

He had spent ten years with me, while legally bound to my sister. The family dinners, the holidays, the way he would look at her with a brotherly affection that I now understood was something else entirely. It all clicked into place with horrifying clarity.

A strange calm washed over my devastation. It was the calm of absolute certainty. I had to see him.

I called a tow truck and then a taxi. When I got back to the house, I walked straight to the garage. Mark was there, not looking for me, but standing beside my broken-down car, which the tow truck had just delivered.

He was on the phone. I stood in the doorway, hidden in the shadows, and listened.

"Don't worry, Britt," he was saying, his voice low and soothing, a tone he hadn't used with me in years. "She's probably just being dramatic. The car is old, it breaks down. I'll handle Chloe. You just rest... yes, of course I love you."

He hung up and finally noticed me. His face shifted from warmth to annoyance in a split second.

"There you are," he said, his voice clipped. "I was worried. Your car broke down?"

I just looked at him, at the man I thought was my husband.

He walked over to the vintage car and ran a hand over its fender, but his touch was dismissive. He didn't even open the hood.

"It's probably just the alternator. I'll have someone look at it tomorrow," he said, already turning to leave the garage. "Let's go inside. I'm starving."

He didn't care about the car. The symbol meant nothing to him because the love it was supposed to represent was never real.

I felt the tears I had been holding back burn behind my eyes, but I forced them down. I would not cry in front of him. Not now.

"Mark," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

He stopped, impatient. "What is it, Chloe?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm selling the car."

He stared at me, confused. "What? Don't be ridiculous. It just needs a small repair."

"No," I said, looking past him at the gleaming, useless machine. "It's broken. It can't be fixed. I'm selling it."

He started to argue, to tell me I was being emotional, but I just walked past him.

"And Mark?" I said, stopping at the door leading into the house. "I've already called a restorer. She's coming to pick it up in the morning."

He looked at me, a flicker of something-maybe unease-in his eyes. "You don't have to be so hasty, Chloe. We can talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," I said, my voice cold. "I'll handle it. You just go and comfort Brittany. She sounded very worried."

His face paled. For the first time, he looked truly scared.