Paul had dragged me out of my room, shoved me into a gown that was too tight, and paraded me into the ballroom like a trophy he had magnanimously decided not to break.
"Smile, Olivia," he hissed, his fingers digging into my waist as we walked through the crowd. "Remember, you're the repentant wife. You're lucky I even brought you."
I forced the corners of my mouth up. My face felt like plastic.
"Oh, look who it is," a voice drawled. Mrs. Vanderwaal, one of the board members' wives, approached us with a glass of champagne. "I'm surprised you showed your face, dear. After... everything."
"She's trying, aren't you, darling?" Paul said smoothly, squeezing my arm. "We're working through it. It's been hard on everyone, especially me, but family comes first."
"You are a saint, Paul," Mrs. Vanderwaal gushed, placing a hand on his arm. "Truly. Most men would have thrown her out on the street. To take back a woman who... well, who did that for a contract? It shows such strength of character."
I felt the blood drain from my face. They all believed it. Every single person in this room thought I was a whore who had cheated on her husband for money.
"It wasn't just for the contract," another woman chimed in, leaning close. "I heard she was... unstable. Maybe it's post-partum depression early? Or just plain greed."
"Now, now," Paul said, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Let's not be too harsh. Olivia has been... confused. She's in therapy now. We're hoping she can be rehabilitated. Maybe it was my fault for pushing her too hard."
He looked at me, his eyes daring me to speak. Daring me to scream the truth.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. I looked at the floor.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "I'm working on myself. Paul has been... very patient."
"See?" Paul beamed, patting my hand. "She's learning."
The women cooed over his forgiveness, ignoring me completely. I was a prop in his play of martyrdom.
"Go get yourself a drink, darling," Paul said, dismissing me with a wave. "Stay where I can see you. And don't talk to any men."
I nodded, keeping my head down, and walked away. The whispers followed me like a swarm of bees. Whore. Gold-digger. Lucky he kept her.
I needed air. I needed to scream.
I slipped through the crowd, avoiding eye contact, and found the service elevator. I pressed the button for the roof.
The night air hit me like a physical blow, cold and sharp. The city lights twinkled below, indifferent to my misery. I walked to the edge, gripping the railing until my knuckles turned white.
I was trapped. Paul had won. He had destroyed my reputation, stolen my voice, and locked me in a cage of his own making.
"Rough night?"
I jumped, spinning around.
A man was leaning against the ventilation unit, a cigarette glowing in the dark. He was tall, dressed in a black suit that cost more than my car, his features sharp and shadowed.
I knew him. Everyone knew him.
Ysmael Hale.
Paul’s cousin. His rival. The man who had been ousted from the family company years ago and built his own empire out of spite. The man who had once, a lifetime ago, asked me to dance at my own engagement party and told me I was making a mistake.
"Ysmael," I breathed.
He took a drag of his cigarette, the ember illuminating his dark eyes. He didn't look at me with pity or disgust. He looked at me with... curiosity.
"I heard the rumors," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Whore of York City, apparently. Though you don't look like you're enjoying the title."
"I didn't do it," I said automatically. Then I stopped. Why was I defending myself to him? He was nothing now. He was the enemy.
"I know," Ysmael said simply.
I blinked. "What?"
"I know Paul," he said, flicking ash onto the concrete. "He's not smart enough to catch a cheater. But he is petty enough to frame one. And you..." He looked me up and down. "You look like you're about to jump."
"I'm not going to jump," I said, though the thought had crossed my mind. "I'm just... thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
"About how to kill him," I muttered.
Ysmael laughed. It was a genuine sound, rich and dark. He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping a few feet away.
"Murder is messy," he said. "And prison orange wouldn't suit you."
"I have nothing left," I said, my voice cracking. "He took my money. He took my reputation. He's keeping me prisoner in my own house. I have no power."
"Power is a funny thing," Ysmael mused. "It shifts. You just need a lever."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. He was powerful. Feared. And he hated Paul almost as much as I did.
An idea formed in my mind. It was reckless. Insane. But I had nothing to lose.
I took a step closer to him.
"Are you married?" I asked.
Ysmael raised an eyebrow. "No."
"Are you seeing anyone?"
"No."
"Good," I said, my heart pounding against my ribs. "How about marrying me?"
Silence stretched between us, heavy and charged. The wind whipped my hair around my face.
"Marry you?" Ysmael repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You're Paul's wife."
“Well, ex-wife if you help me.”
