Chapter 1

My husband Dorian and I clawed our way out of the foster system together, building a software empire from scratch. He was my hero, the man who swore he' d always protect me.

But he became obsessed with "saving" a manipulative single mother, draining our accounts and our marriage. I thought the baby I was secretly carrying could be the bridge to bring him back to me.

Then, at my first prenatal appointment, her son attacked me. He rammed his head into my stomach, and a universe of pain exploded inside me as I collapsed, bleeding on the cold hospital floor.

I begged Dorian for help. He looked from my pale face to the wailing child, and made his choice.

"You need to get a grip," he said coldly, scooping the boy into his arms and walking away, leaving me to lose our child alone.

He let our first baby die, and now our second. His love was a lie.

So I sent him a final gift to remember me by-the divorce papers, and a small jar containing the body of the son he abandoned.

Chapter 1

Adeline Campos POV:

The call that blew up my life came at 3:17 PM on a Tuesday.

I was in the middle of a board meeting, presenting quarterly growth projections for our software company, when my phone buzzed on the polished mahogany table. A restricted number. I ignored it. It buzzed again, insistent.

"Excuse me for one moment," I said, my voice smooth and professional as I silenced the phone.

But then it rang again, and this time a text followed. Chicago PD. Urgent matter concerning your husband, Dorian Warner. Please call immediately.

A cold wave washed over me, so intense I had to grip the edge of the table to stay upright. The faces of the board members blurred into a watercolor smear. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

Dorian.

My mind raced through a thousand terrifying scenarios. A car crash on the interstate. A sudden collapse. Something terrible had happened. Something had to have happened.

I don' t remember ending the meeting. I don' t remember the drive. My next clear memory is of the sterile, antiseptic smell of the police station, a smell that scraped at the inside of my nose and brought back memories I' d spent a lifetime trying to bury.

"I' m here about Dorian Warner," I told the officer at the front desk, my voice tight. "My name is Adeline Campos. I' m his wife."

The officer' s eyes held a flicker of something-pity, maybe? It made my stomach clench. He directed me down a hallway, to a small, crowded room.

And that' s when I saw him.

Dorian wasn' t in a holding cell. He wasn' t injured. He was standing in the middle of the room, his broad shoulders hunched, his arm wrapped protectively around a woman who was sobbing into his chest.

Brittny Quinn.

The waitress from the diner down the street. The single mother with the sad story Dorian had become obsessed with "saving" for the past six months.

The sight of them didn't just hurt. It was beyond that. It was a profound, soul-deep exhaustion. It was the feeling of running a marathon only to be told at the finish line that you have to run it all over again.

I had fought this battle for months. The late-night calls. The "emergency" loans he gave her from our joint account. The way he' d speak of her struggles, his voice thick with a misguided chivalry that was a slap in the face to me, the woman who had clawed her way out of the foster care system right alongside him.

I walked toward them, my heels clicking a sharp, angry rhythm on the linoleum floor.

Dorian looked up, his eyes widening when he saw me. He instinctively pulled Brittny closer, shielding her as if I were the threat.

"Addie," he started, his voice a low plea. "It' s not what it looks like."

I didn' t say a word. I just kept walking until I was standing right in front of him. I looked at his hand, resting on the small of Brittny' s back, a gesture of comfort and possession.

Then I swung.

The sound of my palm connecting with his cheek was like a gunshot in the quiet room. It was sharp, clean, and utterly satisfying.

"You son of a bitch," I hissed, the words tasting like poison. "A motel sting operation? Is that the new charity case you' re working on?"

He stared at me, his hand flying to his reddening cheek, shock warring with guilt in his eyes. The officers in the room froze. Brittny' s sobs hitched.

I raised my hand to slap him again, to wipe that look of pathetic confusion off his face.

But this time, Brittny moved.

She launched herself forward, stepping between us and taking the brunt of my second slap. It wasn't as forceful as the first, but it was enough to make her head snap to the side.

Her crying instantly escalated, turning into loud, theatrical wails.

"Why are you hitting him?" she shrieked, clutching her face. "He was just trying to help me!"

She turned to me, tears streaming down her perfectly made-up face. "You don' t even know what happened! You just come in here and start attacking people!"

I almost laughed. It was so perfectly, ridiculously Brittny. The damsel in perpetual distress.

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice dangerously low.

Dorian grabbed my arm, his grip tight. "Adeline, stop it! Just calm down and let me explain!"

He pushed me back, hard. I stumbled, my ankle twisting, and a sharp pain shot up my leg. I gasped, steadying myself against a wall. For a split second, I saw a flash of regret in his eyes, a flicker of the man I knew.

But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Brittny seized the moment, rushing to his side, her voice a pathetic whimper. "Dorian, I' m so sorry. I told you I shouldn' t have called you. I' ve caused you so much trouble. Your wife... she must hate me."

Her words were like fuel on a fire. I watched as Dorian' s expression hardened, the brief flicker of guilt replaced by a cold, protective mask.

"She doesn' t understand, Brittny. It' s not your fault," he said, his voice soothing. He looked at me, his eyes now filled with disappointment. "Adeline, your jealousy is out of control. Brittny' s ex was stalking her. He set this whole thing up to get her in trouble. I was just trying to get her out of a dangerous situation."

I had imagined a hundred different reasons for this call. A business deal gone wrong. A fender bender. I had even, in my darkest moments, imagined another woman. But I never, not in a million years, thought it would be her again.

The arguments, the sleepless nights, the feeling of being a stranger in my own marriage-it all came rushing back. Every time he defended her. Every time he made me feel like I was the crazy one.

"I' m tired of this," I said, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a chilling emptiness. "I am so, so tired."

He had promised me. After the last time, when I' d found receipts for a hotel room and packed my bags, he had cried. He had begged. He swore he would cut off all contact with her, that I was the only one.

And like a fool, I had believed him. That was a month ago.

The air in the room felt thick, suffocating me. His constant, suffocating need to be a savior for her was a weight I could no longer carry.

I looked at him, at the man I had loved since we were scared kids huddled together in a group home, and for the first time, I felt nothing but a profound sense of release.

"I' m done, Dorian." The words were barely a whisper, but they felt like the loudest sound in the world. "I' m letting you go."

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