CHAPTER ONE

The pen lay on the glass table between them like a loaded weapon, and Evangeline could not stop staring at it.

She had read the heading twice. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. The words refused to arrange themselves into anything that made sense, because they could not possibly mean what they appeared to mean. Not after three years. Not from the man she had given everything to.

"Say it isn't what I think it is, Dominic." Her voice came out steadier than her hands. "Tell me I'm reading it wrong."

Dominic Voss did not look up from his phone. "You're the law student. You tell me." There was no heat in his voice, no cruelty she could grab hold of and fight. Only boredom, which was infinitely worse. He spoke to her the way a man speaks to a stranger who has wandered into the wrong office.

That indifference was what broke the dam.

"I am not stupid, and I won't let you make me feel that way." She set both palms flat on the table to keep them from shaking. "I know how to read a petition. What I want is for you to look me in the eye and tell me why."

He finally lifted his gaze, and the cold in it sent her back a step before she caught herself. For years that one look had been enough to make her swallow her words. She had let it. She had folded herself smaller and smaller inside this house until there was almost nothing of the girl who had once dreamed of arguing cases before a judge.

He had taken that dream from her himself. He'd asked her to give up the bar, the late nights with her textbooks, the future she'd clawed toward since she was sixteen, and she had done it. For him. For a marriage he was now ending with a slip of paper.

"You really want me to spell it out?" Dominic said. "Fine. Sign it. Take whatever the lawyers offer you and go build a life somewhere I never have to think about you again."

Evangeline's legs went soft beneath her. She gripped the edge of the table, refusing to let herself fall, refusing to give him that.

She had always known a day like this might come. She had simply believed — foolishly, desperately — that three years of devotion would have worn down even one corner of the ice in him. And the ice had thawed. She'd seen it happen these past weeks. But the warmth had never once been turned toward her. It belonged entirely to the woman who had come back into his life a month ago and reclaimed a place Evangeline had only ever borrowed.

"Three years." Her voice cracked on the number. "I burned three years on you, Dominic. I gave up everything I wanted to become so I could be whatever you needed. Your mother treated me like staff and I poured her tea and called her family. I shrank myself down to nothing and called it love." The tears came now, hot and uninvited. "And this is the receipt you hand me. Papers and a pen."

For a single heartbeat something flickered across his face. Then it was gone, sealed over again.

"You want to talk about what you're owed?" His tone hardened to steel. "Camille is in a wheelchair. The doctors won't even promise she'll walk again. That happened because of you. Because you couldn't stand the sight of her and you shoved her into the path of a moving car in my own driveway. So don't sit there bleeding about three wasted years like you're the only one who lost something."

The accusation hit her like cold water.

So that was it. That was the real ground underneath all of this. He hadn't even given her the dignity of a true reason — he'd reached for the lie instead, the one she had already sworn against on her own life.

"I never touched her." She was around the table before she knew she'd moved, her hand closing on his sleeve. "Dominic, listen to me. She stumbled off the curb on her own — I grabbed for her arm to pull her back and she tore herself out of my grip. I would never. You know I would never. Why is her word worth more than mine when you've lived beside me for three years and beside her for one month?"

He pried her fingers off his arm one by one, the way you'd remove something unpleasant.

"My mother is bringing Camille over now." He pushed the pen toward her across the glass. "I'd rather she not have to look at you. Sign it before she gets here, and leave."

The cruelty of it stole her breath. To him she had become a thing to be cleared out of a room before the guest of honor arrived. A stain. A bad omen.

She opened her mouth — to say what, she didn't know — and the front doors swung wide.

They came in a cluster, eight or nine of them, voices already raised, and at the center of the group rolled a wheelchair. Camille sat in it pale as paper, a blanket arranged over her legs, looking for all the world like a wounded saint.

"She's still here?" Vivienne, Dominic's mother, swept into the room with her face twisted in disgust. "In my house? After everything she's done?"

Evangeline didn't think. She crossed to the wheelchair and dropped to a crouch, taking Camille's cold hand in both of hers. "Please. You know what really happened. Tell them. Tell them I never put a hand on you — tell them the truth and I'll walk out of here and never come back. Just don't let them believe I—"

A hand seized her shoulder and wrenched her backward. She landed hard on the floor, and Camille screamed as though a wild animal had lunged at her.

"You monster." Vivienne's slap caught Evangeline full across the cheek, snapping her head sideways. "You're still trying to hurt her? Has it not been enough?"

Evangeline pressed a hand to the burning skin of her face and tasted salt and copper. Through the blur of her own tears she watched Dominic move — not toward her, never toward her — but to Camille, folding the other woman into his arms, murmuring against her hair while she trembled on cue.

Something inside Evangeline went very quiet then.

She had been waiting, she realized. Some pathetic, hopeful part of her had still been waiting for one of them to believe her. But the man she'd married wouldn't even turn his head. Why would his mother? Why would any of them? She had never been one of them. She had only ever been the poor girl the old woman dragged in off the street, tolerated and resented in equal measure.

Her eyes found Cordelia last — Old Madam Voss, the one who had begged for this marriage, who had pressed Evangeline's hand and called her a blessing. Surely she, at least —

But the old woman looked at the floor, then at the window, anywhere but at Evangeline's face. Her silence was its own verdict.

Across the room, Dominic's younger sister Brielle smirked. "Someone get my sister-in-law away from that creature before she does something else. I always said she was rotten underneath."

The family flowed past Evangeline where she sat on the floor, stepping around her like she was furniture. She did not get up. She let the tears fall and made no sound, alone in a house that had three years ago promised to be her home.

Only one person did not move with the others. Gerald, Dominic's father, lingered by the table, his eyes fixed on the petition lying there with its single empty line. He had lived long enough to mistrust a story that arrived this neatly, this conveniently, two weeks after a fall no one had actually witnessed.

"Are you sure about this, son?" he asked quietly. "Truly sure? Because once a man signs a thing like this, there's no unsigning it. And some regrets don't visit until it's far too late to do anything about them."