Chapter 1

I'm a neurosurgeon making over half a million dollars a month. I support my husband, an army captain, and his entire parasitic family. After I saved them from financial ruin with a $5 million check, I planned the ultimate family vacation to Monaco-private jet, chartered yacht, all on my dime.

The night before we left, my husband announced his ex-girlfriend, Dahlia, was coming.

He had already given her my seat on the private jet I paid for. My new ticket? A commercial flight with a layover in a war zone. "Dahlia is delicate," he explained. "You're strong."

His family agreed, fawning over her while I stood there, invisible. His sister even whispered to Dahlia, "I wish you were my real sister-in-law."

That night, I found Dahlia in my bed, wearing my silk nightgown. When I went for her, my husband threw his arms around Dahlia, shielding her from me.

The next morning, as punishment for my "behavior," he ordered me to load their mountain of luggage into the motorcade. I smiled. "Of course." Then I walked into my office and made a call. "Yes, I have a large quantity of contaminated material," I told the hazardous waste disposal service. "I need it all incinerated."

Chapter 1

My husband, Captain Connor Hopkins, scored a rare two weeks of leave, a small window in his demanding military career. I decided we needed a real family vacation. Not just a weekend away, but something unforgettable.

I planned everything.

I'm Dr. Jenna McMahon, a neurosurgeon whose monthly income tops half a million dollars. His is eight thousand. The math was simple. I made our life possible.

I spent weeks organizing the details. A private jet to Monaco, a chartered yacht to cruise the Mediterranean, reservations at restaurants with years-long waiting lists. The kind of trip the Hopkins family felt they deserved but could never afford.

Monaco was a fortress of old money and suspicion toward outsiders. Getting the right permits for our entourage was a bureaucratic nightmare I handled personally.

My husband's family didn't lift a finger. They just expected it to happen.

His parents, retired General Hugh Hopkins and his wife Beverley, lived in the guest wing of my mansion. I supported them completely.

His sister, Kourtney, was a nineteen-year-old student at an Ivy League university. I'd been paying her exorbitant tuition and funding her lavish lifestyle since she was a teenager. I practically raised her.

I told myself it was worth it. That this was the price for the happy, bustling family life I'd always wanted. My practice was thriving, with clients flying in from all over the world to see me. I could afford it.

Then, a few days ago, Kourtney made a casual comment. "I've never been in a proper armored motorcade before. Dahlia said they're amazing."

Dahlia. The name was a ghost from Connor's past.

To ensure their absolute safety and comfort-and to satisfy Kourtney's childish wish-I had dipped into my personal savings. I upgraded the entire travel package, arranging for a fully secured, multi-vehicle motorcade for all our ground transport in Europe. An expense of over a hundred thousand dollars I didn't even mention to Connor.

We were supposed to leave in the morning. All the bags were packed, lined up in the grand foyer. My bags. Connor's bags. His parents' bags. Kourtney's bags.

Then, my husband strode in.

"Jenna, good news. Dahlia is joining us."

I stopped what I was doing. I looked at him, trying to process the casual way he'd dropped the bomb.

"What?"

"Dahlia Reynolds. She's coming on the trip. I've already told her yes."

A cold feeling started in my stomach. The private jet only had a certain number of seats. I had booked it for the five of us.

"Connor, there isn't enough room on the jet."

He didn't even look at me. He was scrolling through his phone.

"I know. I took care of it."

A notification buzzed on my phone. It was a flight itinerary.

A commercial flight.

For one passenger. Me.

The route had three layovers. The final one was in a city currently under a Level 4 "Do Not Travel" advisory from the State Department due to civil unrest and violent crime.

I looked at the itinerary, then back at my husband.

"You canceled my seat on the private jet I paid for?"

He finally looked up from his phone, his expression impatient.

"Dahlia wanted to come. We couldn't just tell her no. She's family."

A primal, ugly feeling coiled in my gut. It was hot and sharp.

"She is not family, Connor. I am your wife. You want me to fly commercial, alone, through a war zone, so your ex-girlfriend can take my place on a jet I chartered?"

I turned to my mother-in-law, Beverley, who was listening with a smug little smile.

"Beverley, when my own mother wanted to visit last Christmas, you and Connor told me it was 'family time' and there wasn't room for her in this ten-bedroom house. But there's room for Dahlia on our family vacation?"