Chapter One
Ella
"Ella, tell me the truth. Is your husband good to you?"
My sister's weak voice came through the phone as I huddled under the eaves outside the sanatorium, dodging the rain. New York's early autumn downpour hammered the pavement, sending up bone-chilling spray. I froze, unable to answer.
"Of course. Lucas is loaded." I took a deep breath, forcing lightness into my voice. "The manor's crawling with staff, and the Amex has no limit. Everything's perfect."
Except for one thing.
My husband Lucas didn't love me. Not even close.
The thought hit like a fist to the gut. Pain crashed over me in waves. But I couldn't tell her. Not now. Maya's kidney failure had reached its final stage. Even talking left her breathless. I couldn't pile my miserable marriage on top of that.
But Maya wasn't buying it.
Her reply came edged with suppressed fury. "Then explain why today's news is full of photos of him with Vivian again. Does he give a damn how you feel when you see them? Or does he actually—"
A violent coughing fit cut her off.
Each cough pierced straight through me.
Vivian. Lucas's chief assistant, stunning as any runway model, glued to his side. The tabloids ran wild with them. Those photos had stabbed at me more times than I could count. I kept telling myself Lucas wouldn't cheat, even if he spent more time with her than with me.
But I couldn't upset Maya further. I bit my lip, forcing indifference into my voice. "Maya, you know those gossip rags. They'll twist anything for clicks. Vivian's just his assistant. It's normal for them to interact at formal events. Like having a butler at the manor, it's just work."
But what was the truth? I didn't know. Because like Maya, I only learned about my husband's whereabouts through tabloid headlines.
Maya's voice came back, heavy with disappointment. "Fine. Let's say it's work. But with this storm, he couldn't even send a car to bring you home?"
My throat locked up.
New York's weather was hell today. Rain so heavy that even pressed against the wall, half my body was soaked through. The cold had me shaking uncontrollably.
Any normal person would call to check in on family. But my phone screen stayed dead silent. He knew I visited Saint Heart Sanatorium every weekend to see Maya. But he didn't care if I had an umbrella, didn't care if I'd make it back safely.
Two years of marriage, and his indifference had seeped into my bones.
"I have a driver," I said, digging my nails into my palm. "Lucas is swamped with work..."
"Ella!" Maya's voice spiked, cutting me off.
I froze. All my excuses died in my throat. Maya raised me. Nobody could spot my lies better. She was too smart—she'd probably pieced together the truth from the scraps long ago.
My tongue felt wooden. I didn't know how to end this suffocating call.
"Ella!"
Someone shouted my name. Through the black curtain of rain, a figure ran toward me, umbrella raised, splashing through puddles.
I grabbed the lifeline. "Hear that? My driver's here."
Two seconds of silence. Then Maya sighed, deep and heavy. "Good."
I hit end.
The person with the umbrella reached me. In the dim light, a young, clean-cut face appeared. Joe, the sanatorium director's son. Three years younger than me, with warm hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners when he looked at you. Everyone at Saint Heart Sanatorium loved him.
