Chapter 2

The silence that followed Sofia's verdict line was a living thing — it pressed against the walls, sucked the air from the room, and held every soul in the foyer in a frozen tableau. The champagne bar's glow flickered at the edge of the frame, but no one dared to move toward it. The empty concierge desk stood like a gilded witness, its polished surface reflecting the amber light of the chandeliers overhead.

Adrian's hands hung at his sides, useless. His mind was a storm of images — Sofia's face, pale and calm, the photograph raised between them; Vivienne's white, stricken expression; the date-stamp that had burned itself into his retinas like a brand. The date. He knew that date. He had been in Singapore that week, closing a shipping deal, his phone buzzing with a message from Sofia that he had never answered because the signal had been bad and the meeting had run long and by the time he'd landed she was already gone.

He had spent eight months blaming himself. Eight months cataloguing every failure, every missed call, every night he'd chosen the boardroom over the bedroom. He had convinced himself that she had left because of him, that he had driven her away with his ambition and his absences and his quiet, stubborn inability to say the words she needed to hear.

And all along, it had been Vivienne.

Vivienne, who had shown up at his office six months ago, a sleek blonde with a perfect smile and a perfectly curated sob story about a failed marriage and a fresh start. Vivienne, who had listened to his grief with such patient sympathy, who had coaxed him back into the world with dinners and galas and the careful, deliberate seduction of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

Vivienne, who had been the one to suggest they stay at the Lumière Hotel tonight, of all nights. Whose choice of venue had been so specific, so deliberate, that now the word for it clawed at his throat: trap.

"Sofia," Adrian said, finally finding his voice. He took a step toward her, then stopped when her left hand tightened on the cart handle — a warning, a barrier. "Sofia, please. Please tell me what happened. Tell me everything."

Sofia's eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, the wall in them cracked. He saw exhaustion there, bone-deep and corroding. He saw fear, carefully buried. And he saw something else — something that looked almost like pity.

"She had me taken," Sofia said quietly. "The night before you were supposed to come home early. The night I found out I was pregnant." Her hand moved unconsciously to her belly, resting on the curve of it. "I called her. I didn't know who she was then. I just knew you had a new... companion. I thought I should tell her, woman to woman. I thought she should know that we were still married, that I was carrying your child, that maybe she would back off and let us try to fix things."

Vivienne made a sound — a choked, strangled noise that might have been a laugh. "You called me," she whispered. "You called me and you told me you were pregnant with his baby. As if that would make me go away. As if that would make me give up." Her voice rose, cracking. "Do you have any idea what I went through to get him? Any idea what I sacrificed?"

"Sacrificed?" Adrian turned on her, his voice a raw edge. "You had my wife taken. You had a pregnant woman dragged out of our home in the middle of the night. What did you sacrifice, Vivienne? What did you possibly give up?"

Vivienne's lips parted, but no sound came out. She pressed back against the concierge desk, her right hand gripping the edge so hard her knuckles went white.

"You don't understand," she finally managed. "You don't understand what it's like to want something so badly that you can't breathe, that you can't sleep, that you'd do anything—" Her voice broke. "I love you, Adrian. I love you."

Adrian stared at her. The word hung in the air between them, a grotesque parody of everything it should have meant.

"You had my wife taken," he repeated, each word precise and cold. "You had her taken because you love me."