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Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

My wedding day. My fiancé, Graham Whitmore, was in the garden, dancing with his best friend, Sloane. She was wearing a white gown. That was supposed to be my first dance. From the livestream in the bridal suite, I heard the guests cheering them on. I heard the wedding planner’s strained voice asking him when he was going to come for me. And I heard his easy laugh. “Let her wait. Sloane is my ‘practice bride.’” I killed the livestream, grabbed my tablet, and walked into the reception hall. The room went dead silent. “Congratulations, Graham. Congratulations, Sloane.” I caught the eye of the technician and signaled for him to switch the main screen from the wedding video to my tablet. On it was the wedding gift I’d prepared for the Whitmore Foundation: an exclusive licensing agreement for my personal patent. In front of every donor and board member, I tapped “Revoke.” A massive “Notice of License Termination” filled the screen. “First, I will not be signing the marriage license. The wedding is off.” “Second, effective immediately, my company is terminating all cooperation with the Whitmore Foundation.” They thought they’d ruined a wedding. They had no idea they’d just torpedoed the foundation’s eligibility for tens of millions in public funding. ... Silence. The moment I finished speaking, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the reception hall. Every trace of color drained from Graham’s face. His blue eyes were wide with shocked disbelief. His lips moved, but no sound came out. I had seen that same expression on his face just an hour ago. Only then, he had been smiling. It had been in the garden. The wedding emcee was holding a microphone, his voice booming as he worked the crowd. “Our groom looks a little nervous! Should we have him rehearse the first dance with the beautiful Sloane?” The guests let out a wave of good-natured laughter. Graham laughed too. He turned grac......