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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 days before the wedding, my fiancé sold the house we'd spent three years building together. His crew exploded in the garage bar. "You've lost your goddamn mind, Derek. You sold the house because Tiffany wanted a purse? Does Savannah even know? Where's she supposed to live after the wedding—your pickup bed?" "Yeah, Savannah oversaw every inch of that renovation. She sanded and stained the wainscoting in the master bedroom herself. Planted every hydrangea in the garden. All of it, her work." Derek knocked back a glass of Blanton's, ice clanking against the glass with an impatient sound. "She loves me so much she almost died taking a knife for me. You really think she's gonna care about some beat-up house?" "Besides. She's always saying as long as she's with me, anywhere is home. Perfect time to see if she actually meant it." I stood in the hallway outside the tool room, a container of hangover soup from Whole Foods in my hand. Behind that door, not quite shut, his careless voice carried through. The hallway smelled like motor oil and old wood. I leaned against the cold drywall for a few seconds. Then I turned, still holding the cold soup, and walked out. The morning of the wedding, my phone buzzed like a death threat. Derek's photo flashed on the screen. "Savannah, where the hell are you? Jesus Christ, both families are in the church. Forty people waiting on you." I sat in a speeding Uber, watching the oak-lined street I knew with my eyes closed slide past the window. "I already signed the papers with someone else. I'm at home now." *** That house. A 1920s Colonial with a wide front porch and oak floors. From the first renovation sketch I ever drew, it took three full years of my life. Tiffany posted one tearful Instagram story. "I want this bag so bad, it's like starlight fell to earth." Derek turned my house into cash and bought her a Himalaya Birkin—Hermès's crown jewel. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Ne......

Three days before the wedding, my fiancé sold the house we'd spent three years building together. His crew exploded in the garage bar. "You've lost your goddamn mind, Derek. You sold the house because Tiffany wanted a purse? Does Savannah even know? Where's she supposed to live after the wedding—your pickup bed?" "Yeah, Savannah oversaw every inch of that renovation. She sanded and stained the wainscoting in the master bedroom herself. Planted every hydrangea in the garden. All of it, her work." Derek knocked back a glass of Blanton's, ice clanking against the glass with an impatient sound. "She loves me so much she almost died taking a knife for me. You really think she's gonna care about some beat-up house?" "Besides. She's always saying as long as she's with me, anywhere is home. Perfect time to see if she actually meant it." I stood in the hallway outside the tool room, a container of hangover soup from Whole Foods in my hand. Behind that door, not quite shut, his careless voice carried through. The hallway smelled like motor oil and old wood. I leaned against the cold drywall for a few seconds. Then I turned, still holding the cold soup, and walked out. The morning of the wedding, my phone buzzed like a death threat. Derek's photo flashed on the screen. "Savannah, where the hell are you? Jesus Christ, both families are in the church. Forty people waiting on you." I sat in a speeding Uber, watching the oak-lined street I knew with my eyes closed slide past the window. "I already signed the papers with someone else. I'm at home now." *** That house. A 1920s Colonial with a wide front porch and oak floors. From the first renovation sketch I ever drew, it took three full years of my life. Tiffany posted one tearful Instagram story. "I want this bag so bad, it's like starlight fell to earth." Derek turned my house into cash and bought her a Himalaya Birkin—Hermès's crown jewel. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Ne......