The phone's screen went dark, but the silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Ryker's hand still hovered near my throat, the Tiffany box forgotten in his other palm. His green eyes searched my face, looking for cracks in whatever mask I was wearing.
"That was Maren," he said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "Your sister. She's been having a rough time lately, and I promised your mom I'd keep an eye on her."
The lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly I almost admired the craftsmanship. My sister Maren, who lived in Seattle and hadn't spoken to our mother in three years. My sister who would rather eat glass than accept help from Ryker, whom she'd called "soulless" at our wedding reception.
I let my shoulders relax, arranged my features into the expression of a concerned older sister. "Oh no, what's wrong? Is she okay?"
Ryker's relief was almost palpable. His hand dropped from my neck, and he stepped back, already reaching for his phone. "Just some work stress. You know how she gets. I should probably call her back, make sure she's alright."
"Of course," I said, my voice warm with false understanding. "Don't let me keep you. She needs you."
The irony wasn't lost on either of us, though only I seemed to appreciate it. Ryker squeezed my shoulder—a gesture that once would have comforted me, now felt like a spider crawling across my skin—and headed toward the balcony.
"I'll just be a minute," he said, sliding the glass door open. "Then we can have dinner. I've missed your cooking."
Another lie, but I smiled anyway. "Take your time."
The moment the balcony door clicked shut, I was moving. Ninety seconds, maybe two minutes if I was lucky. Ryker's voice was already carrying through the glass, too muffled to make out words but animated in a way he never sounded when talking to my actual sister.
His luggage sat by the front door like an accusation—expensive leather that had traveled first-class from Monaco to New York. The main suitcase was locked, but the smaller carry-on bag had a zipper that gave way under my trembling fingers.
Inside, beneath silk ties and Italian leather shoes, my fingers found it. A manila envelope, thick with documents, the kind of official papers that changed lives and destroyed marriages. My hands shook as I pulled it free, careful not to disturb the careful arrangement of his belongings.
Wedding certificates. Multiple copies in both English and French, embossed with official seals that caught the afternoon light. My breath caught in my throat as I photographed each page with my phone, the camera's silent shutter capturing evidence of my husband's betrayal.
There—the bride's signature. Maren Whitfield-Cooper.
Whitfield. My mother's maiden name, the name I'd legally dropped when I married Ryker. The name that had no connection to the real Maren Cooper, my sister who had kept her ex-husband's surname out of spite.
My phone's camera captured everything: the witness signatures, the officiant's seal, the date that proved Ryker had married another woman while still legally bound to me. Each image was a nail in his coffin, evidence that could destroy him in divorce court.
But more than that—it was proof that this Monaco marriage might not be legally valid at all. If the bride had used a false identity, if the documents contained fraudulent information...
Ryker's voice grew louder on the balcony, laughter mixing with words I couldn't quite catch. Time was running out. I slid the envelope back into place, arranged his belongings exactly as I'd found them, and zipped the bag closed with hands that barely trembled.
By the time he slid the balcony door open, I was in the kitchen, tying an apron around my waist with domestic precision. The ritual of cooking had always calmed me—the methodical preparation, the controlled heat, the transformation of raw ingredients into something nourishing.
Tonight, it felt like armor.
"How's Maren?" I asked without turning around, my voice perfectly pitched with sisterly concern.
"Better now," Ryker said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "She just needed someone to listen."
I pulled the steaks from the refrigerator—two perfect cuts of filet mignon I'd been saving for a special occasion. The irony wasn't lost on me that I was now using them for what would likely be our last meal together.
"I thought I'd make your favorite," I said, seasoning the meat with salt and cracked pepper. "Garlic herb crusted filet. The way you like it."
Ryker moved behind me, his presence a familiar weight in the small kitchen. "You don't have to go to all this trouble."
"It's no trouble." I heated olive oil in the cast iron skillet, the same pan we'd received as a wedding gift from his grandmother. "I like taking care of you."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but they had the desired effect. When I glanced over my shoulder, Ryker's expression had softened, guilt flickering across his features like candlelight.
"Sloane," he started, then stopped. His hand hovered near my shoulder, uncertain. "I—"
"The steaks are ready," I interrupted, sliding them into the hot oil. They sizzled and popped, filling the kitchen with the rich scent of searing meat. "Could you open some wine? The Bordeaux from our anniversary?"
Another test. That bottle had been a gift from his business partner, saved for a celebration that never came. If he opened it now, it would tell me exactly how guilty he felt about whatever he'd done in Monaco.
Ryker moved to the wine rack without hesitation, pulling out the bottle worth more than most people's monthly rent. The cork came free with a soft pop, and he poured two generous glasses of wine the color of dark cherries.
"To us," he said, raising his glass.
I turned from the stove, my own glass in hand, and looked at this man I'd once loved enough to promise my life to. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his green eyes warm with what looked like genuine affection. He was handsome, successful, charming—everything I'd thought I wanted in a husband.
Everything except honest.
"To us," I echoed, touching my glass to his.
The wine was perfect—complex and smooth, with notes of blackcurrant and oak. I savored it, knowing it would be the last expensive wine I'd drink as Ryker's wife.
I plated the steaks with practiced efficiency, adding roasted asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes. Domestic perfection, the kind of meal that belonged in a magazine spread about successful couples and their beautiful lives.
Ryker watched me work, his expression growing more troubled with each passing minute. When I set his plate in front of him, he caught my hand.
"I don't deserve you," he said quietly.
My fingers tightened around the steak knife I still held, the blade catching the kitchen light. For a moment, I imagined what it would feel like to drive it between his ribs, to watch the surprise bloom in his green eyes as his blood mixed with the wine.
Instead, I smiled.
"Don't be silly," I said, gently extracting my hand from his grip. "We deserve each other."
As I took my seat across from him, I realized something had shifted inside me. The woman who had stood frozen in her apartment this morning, shattered by the sight of her husband's wedding photos, was gone.
In her place sat someone harder. Someone who could smile while planning revenge.
Someone who had just cooked her last meal for the man who had stolen her life's work and married another woman.
Ryker cut into his steak, the knife sliding through the perfectly cooked meat. "This is incredible," he said, taking his first bite. "I've missed this. Missed you."
I watched him chew, watched him swallow, watched him take another bite of the meal I'd prepared with such care. My own steak sat untouched on my plate.
"I'm glad you're home," I lied, raising my wine glass in another toast. "I'm glad you're here."
But as the words left my mouth, I was already planning how to destroy him.
