Addison Lawson POV:
The ride to the Upper East Side was silent. I watched the rain-slicked streets of New York blur past the window of the unmarked police car. We had driven this route a thousand times, Damien and I, on our way to dinner parties, to the theater, to the life I thought was mine. Now, I was returning as an instrument of its destruction.
"You're very calm," Detective Miller observed from the driver's seat, his eyes briefly meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
I turned my gaze from the window. "When you know you're in the right, there's nothing to be afraid of."
We pulled up in front of a gleaming glass and steel high-rise, the kind of building that hums with quiet, old money. The doorman, in his crisp uniform, blinked in surprise at the sight of police cars pulling up to his curb.
From the second car, Candace was escorted out. She had pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, a pathetic attempt to hide, but it was too late. Passersby were already slowing down, their phones already angled to capture the drama.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was a study in contrasts. The mirrored walls reflected my face, pale but composed, and Candace's, which was ashen and blotchy with fear. She was living my life, in a building I should have been living in, and now I was here to take back the one piece of it that truly mattered.
The elevator doors opened onto a private foyer. A heavy, dark wood double door stood before us, a monument to the life Candace thought she had secured.
"Ms. Smith. The key," Miller said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Her hand trembled so violently she couldn't fit the key into the lock. A uniformed female officer took it from her with a sigh and opened the door.
The air that hit me was a sterile mix of expensive perfume and stale champagne. The apartment was a showroom of minimalist luxury, filled with designer furniture I recognized because I had bookmarked the same pieces for the home I was supposed to share with Damien. He hadn't just replaced me; he had plagiarized my taste.
"Where?" Miller asked, his voice pulling me from my thoughts.
I didn't hesitate. I walked past the soulless living room, my heels clicking on the polished marble floors. I moved with a strange sense of ownership, a ghost reclaiming her territory. Candace made a choked sound, a half-hearted attempt to stop me, but the female officer's hand on her shoulder kept her in place.
I walked straight into the study. The police followed, their presence turning this from a domestic dispute into a formal reclamation.
The room was dominated by a massive mahogany desk, a carbon copy of the one Damien had in his office. My eyes scanned the built-in bookshelves. I ignored the drawers, the places a normal person might look. I knew Damien's mind. I knew his patterns.
I reached for a thick, leather-bound volume. The Harvard Law Review.
I pulled it from the shelf and placed it on the desk. The officers watched, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. I opened the book. The center had been neatly hollowed out.
And nestled inside, on a bed of black velvet, was a small mahogany box.
A collective intake of breath came from the officers behind me. My precision was absolute. It was damning.
Candace let out a low, wounded moan. Her knees buckled, and if the officer hadn't been holding her, she would have collapsed.
Miller gestured for an officer to begin filming as another prepared an evidence bag. He looked at the box, then at me. His eyes held a new level of respect. "Do you want us to open it?"
I looked at the box. It was the first gift I had ever given Damien, for his cufflinks. Now it held the proof of his betrayal. A sharp, unexpected pang of pain shot through me, but I smothered it with ice.
I reached out, my hand steady. "No. I'll do it."
This was my right. My closure. In front of everyone, I flipped the small brass latch.
The lid popped open with a soft click.
There, glittering under the recessed lighting, was my ring. The cushion-cut diamond winked, cold and brilliant.
But it wasn't the ring that held everyone's attention. Tucked beneath it, almost hidden, was a small, folded piece of cream-colored cardstock.
