I remembered years ago, before Hudson, a stalker from my town had harassed me. He'd spread rumors, posted my picture with crude captions. It was a dark, humiliating time, a shadow that had followed me for years.

When I first told Hudson about it, back when he was just Hudson, he had held me. He found the man and dealt with him so thoroughly that I never heard from him again.

"I will always protect you, Aleen," he had promised, his voice fierce. "No one will ever hurt you like that again."

The memory was so clear, so painful. The man who had vowed to protect me from this very thing, this exact violation, was the one who had just unleashed it upon the world.

A terrible, sickening thought bloomed in my mind.

The blood drained from my face.

I couldn't breathe.

I ran. I flew down the hallway, not caring about the maids who scattered out of my way. I burst into his office without knocking.

He was on a call, looking out at the city skyline.

"Was it you?" The words were a mangled whisper. I barely recognized my own voice. "Hudson Scott, was it you who leaked those photos?"

He slowly turned, his face unreadable. He held up a finger, finishing his call with a calm, "We'll continue this later."

He hung up and looked at me, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "Don't ever call me by my full name, Aleen. And you will learn to knock."

"Was it you?" I repeated, my voice shaking with a rage that was starting to burn through the shock.

He walked over to me, his shadow falling over me. He didn't deny it.

"It was a lesson," he said simply, as if discussing the weather. "You embarrassed me. You hurt Ginger. You needed to be reminded of the consequences of disobedience."

I stared at him, my heart turning to a block of ice in my chest. He had taken my deepest vulnerability, a wound he had pretended to heal, and twisted the knife in deeper himself. All to punish me for something I didn't even do.

Did he even care about Ginger? Or was she just another tool, another weapon to use against me?

A bitter, broken laugh escaped my lips. I closed my eyes. "I want a divorce."

This time, he didn't laugh. His face went rigid. He grabbed my throat, his fingers digging into my skin, not hard enough to choke, but hard enough to terrify.

"There will be no divorce," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "Do you understand me? You will learn to behave. You will learn to accept my discipline. Or the consequences will be far, far worse than a few embarrassing photos."

He let go, and I stumbled back, gasping for air.

"This was just a small punishment," he said, straightening his cuffs. "Be a good wife, and I'll forget it ever happened. I' ll even take you to Paris next month, just like you've always wanted."

I just stared at him. He thought he could buy my forgiveness with a trip after destroying my reputation and violating my trust in the most profound way imaginable.

I turned and walked out of the room, my back straight. He thought I was a toy. Something he could break and then fix with a pretty ribbon.

He thought the pain he inflicted could be erased with a price tag.

He was wrong.

The next few weeks were a blur of public adoration for Ginger. Hudson showered her with gifts. He bought her a gallery. He threw a lavish party where he unveiled a statue of her, commissioned from a world-famous sculptor.

I watched it all on the news, a silent spectator in my own home. The pain was a physical thing, a constant ache in my chest that made it hard to breathe.

I used to think his love for me was unique, special. Now I saw it for what it was: a temporary obsession. A switch he could flip. He had loved me, and now he was infatuated with her. His affection was transferable.

I was a fool.

I was wrong from the very beginning.

Chapter 4

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