Chapter 1

My husband, Arthur, had a pattern. He would cheat, I would find out, and a rare book would appear on my shelf. Forty-nine betrayals, forty-nine expensive apologies. It was a transaction: my silence for a beautiful object.

But the forty-ninth was the last straw. He skipped my dying father' s award ceremony-a promise he made while holding his hand-to buy a condo for his high school sweetheart, Juliet.

The lie was so casual it broke me more than the affair.

Then he took her to my mother' s memorial garden. He stood there while she tried to erect a monument for her dead cat next to my mother' s bench.

When I confronted them, he had the nerve to ask me for compassion.

"Let's show a little compassion," he said.

Compassion for the woman desecrating my mother' s memory. Compassion for the woman he' d told about my miscarriage, a sacred grief he' d shared like a dirty secret.

I realized then that this wasn't just about a broken heart. This was about dismantling the lie I helped him build.

That night, while he slept, I installed a bug on his phone. I' m a political strategist. I've ruined careers with far less. The fiftieth book wouldn't be his apology. It would be my closing statement.

Chapter 1

The first thing I did when I got home was to pour myself a large glass of wine. I walked past the living room, ignoring the mountain of campaign materials on the dining table, and went straight to my study. I unlocked the glass cabinet and carefully placed the book on the empty shelf.

It was a first edition of The Great Gatsby. Beautiful, rare, and ridiculously expensive.

It was the forty-ninth book Arthur had given me. Forty-nine apologies for forty-nine betrayals.

He walked in just as I was closing the cabinet.

"Anya, you're home," he said, his voice smooth and charming, the same voice that won him votes.

He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I stiffened. His touch felt like a lie.

"You missed it," I said, my voice flat.

I was talking about my father' s Lifetime Achievement Award ceremony. The one Arthur swore he wouldn't miss for the world. He had promised my father, held his hand, and looked him in the eye.

My father was sick. That promise meant everything.

"I know, honey, I'm so sorry," Arthur said, resting his chin on my shoulder. "There was a last-minute donor meeting. A real emergency. You know how it is."

I knew exactly how it was. My friend, a real estate agent, had called me an hour ago. She' d just closed a deal on a luxury condo downtown. The buyer was Arthur Shaw. He paid in cash. The title was in Juliet Perez' s name.

Juliet Perez. His high school sweetheart. The ghost that never left our marriage.

The lie was so casual, so easy for him. It hit me harder than the affair itself. He had left my dying father waiting for him, all so he could buy a love nest for another woman.

For years, this was his pattern. He would cheat, I would find out, and a rare book would appear. A silent, expensive apology that I was expected to accept. It was a transaction. My silence for a beautiful object.

I had decided that the fiftieth book would be the last. The end of us. But standing there, with the weight of his lie pressing down on me, I knew I couldn't wait. This betrayal, the one that hurt my father, was the breaking point.

"It's a beautiful book, isn't it?" he murmured, his breath warm on my neck. He thought, as always, that the gift had fixed everything.

"Yes," I said, turning to face him. I forced a small smile. "It is."

I needed proof. I needed to see the whole ugly truth before I burned it all down.

Later that night, while he was in the shower, I picked up his phone. My hands were shaking, but my mind was clear. I was a political strategist. I'd ruined careers with less information than this. Installing a simple bugging app was child's play.

It took less than two minutes. I placed the phone back on the nightstand just as the water shut off.

He came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, smiling that perfect candidate smile.

"I'll make it up to you and your dad, I promise," he said.

He leaned in to kiss me, but I turned my head slightly, so his lips landed on my cheek.

"I'm just tired," I said.

He accepted it easily, too self-absorbed to notice the coldness in my eyes.

An hour later, as he snored softly beside me, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message notification lit up the screen. On my own phone, the app mirrored it instantly.

Juliet: Thinking of you. Can't wait to christen our new place.

I watched him sleep, this man I had built a life with, this stranger.

I opened her public Instagram profile. There was a new post from two hours ago. A picture of a key with a large, tacky heart-shaped key chain on a marble countertop.

The caption read: New beginnings. He knows the way to my heart.

Arthur had liked the post. He' d even commented with a single red heart emoji. He scrolled past dozens of photos of me on his own campaign page, photos of us smiling, the perfect political power couple, to like a picture of the key to the apartment he bought for his mistress.

Then another message from Juliet came through.

Juliet: Tomorrow? Same time?

Arthur' s phone buzzed again. He stirred in his sleep but didn't wake. I held my breath. The reply I saw on my screen was a pre-scheduled message he must have set before falling asleep.

Arthur: Can't wait. I'll tell Anya I have a budget meeting.

The lie was already prepared. Effortless.

I lay in the dark, the screen of my phone casting a pale light on my face. The strategist in my head was already working, mapping out the steps. This wasn't just about a broken heart anymore. This was about dismantling a lie. My lie. The life I' d helped him build.

The fifty-first book would not be a gift. It would be my closing statement.