PROLOGUE
Christmas morning found me not unwrapping presents under a tree, but trapped in a boardroom that smelled of stale coffee and high-stakes desperation.
The quarterly projections were on the screen, but my mind was drifting.
My phone buzzed against the mahogany table, a lifeline in the sea of corporate monotony.
It was Tristan.
My husband of convenience.
Or, as the tabloids liked to call him, the CEO of the Sterling-Vane Consortium.
"There's a limited edition Holiday Latte at that place you like," his message read. "Ordering one for you."
I glanced at the screen, suppressing a smirk.
Even on Christmas, even after I'd given him his "freedom" weeks ago, he was still checking in.
I needed to reply quickly before the VP of Finance noticed I wasn't paying attention to his pie charts.
My thumb glided hastily across the screen, utilizing the swipe-to-type feature I usually swore by.
I meant to type: "I'm screening."
As in, I'm in the middle of screening a presentation.
But in my haste, and perhaps due to the universe's twisted sense of humor, my thumb took a slightly different trajectory.
I hit send without double-checking.
The message bubble popped up, blue and innocent.
"I'm screwing."
Time seemed to freeze.
The air in the boardroom suddenly felt very thin.
I stared at the words, willing them to change, but they sat there, mocking me.
Screening. Screwing.
Damn autocorrect. Damn swipe typing.
On the other end, the typing indicator vanished.
Silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.
Then, three dots appeared.
His reply came through, short and sharp enough to cut glass.
"Shall I order two, then?"
