Chapter 3

I didn't confront Adrian.

Not that night.

After what I had discovered, confronting him would have been the easiest thing to do. I could have walked into his office, thrown the documents onto his desk, and demanded an explanation for every photograph, every meeting, and every lie.

But anger was a terrible reason to make a decision.

If Adrian had hidden something this carefully for seven years, then there had to be more.

I needed to know everything before I made my move.

So instead of going home, I stayed in the office until dawn and began digging into Vivian Hart.

The first thing I found was an old society article published nearly twelve years ago.

Adrian's name appeared beside Vivian's.

They were standing at a charity gala, young and smiling, with Adrian's arm around her waist.

The caption described Vivian as the daughter of a prominent family and Adrian's longtime girlfriend.

I stared at the photograph for a long time.

Girlfriend.

So she wasn't simply someone from his past.

She had been his first love.

I searched further.

There were dozens of articles from that period. Adrian and Vivian appeared together at charity dinners, business events, family gatherings, and overseas vacations. They had been together for almost three years before Vivian suddenly disappeared from the public eye.

Then I found an article explaining why.

Adrian's grandfather had opposed their relationship.

The Cross family considered Vivian unsuitable because of her family's financial problems and lack of political influence. According to the article, Adrian had fought with his grandfather over the relationship before eventually giving in.

A few months later, Vivian left the country.

The article ended with a sentence that made my chest tighten.

Adrian Cross remained unmarried after Vivian Hart's departure.

Until me.

I leaned back in the chair.

For seven years, I had believed Adrian simply hadn't met the right woman until he met me.

Now I wondered whether I had simply arrived at the right time.

I continued searching.

Vivian's social media accounts were mostly private, but archived photographs and old posts remained online. I found pictures from Europe, Singapore, and New York.

Then I found something that made my fingers stop.

One of the photographs had been taken at a hotel in Paris.

The date was five years ago.

Adrian had told me he was in Switzerland that week for a merger.

I remembered that trip.

I had spent three nights alone in our house, worried because Adrian barely answered my calls. When he finally came home, he brought me flowers and said the negotiations had been exhausting.

I had kissed him and told him I was glad he was back.

Now I was looking at proof that he had been in Paris.

With Vivian.

I opened another photograph.

Singapore.

Three years ago.

Another.

Maldives.

Two years ago.

Another.

Milan.

Last year.

Each time, Adrian had given me a different explanation.

Business conference.

Investor meeting.

Emergency negotiations.

I had believed every one.

My throat tightened as I scrolled through the photographs.

How many times had I kissed him goodbye while he was secretly going to meet her?

How many times had I waited for him to come home while he was sitting beside Vivian somewhere across the world?

I closed my eyes.

The worst part wasn't that he had lied.

It was that I remembered how worried I had been.

I had stayed awake until three in the morning waiting for his calls.

Meanwhile, he had apparently been having dinner with the woman he told me belonged to his past.

I forced myself to keep searching.

The hotel records were harder to find, but eventually I discovered a series of corporate expense reports.

Several of Adrian's supposedly solo business trips had additional private reservations.

Two suites.

One under Adrian's name.

One under a company registered to Vivian's business manager.

The dates matched almost perfectly.

I stared at the screen.

There was no longer anything left to explain away.

Adrian had been seeing Vivian throughout our marriage.

Not once.

Not twice.

For years.

I should have been furious.

Instead, I felt strangely numb.

Then I remembered our house.

The apartment Adrian had bought shortly after our wedding had always been one of my favorite places. When we first moved in, he told me that he had chosen it because he wanted us to have a home that belonged completely to us.

I had believed him.

I searched the property records.

My heart sank.

The apartment had originally been purchased through a holding company.

I searched the company's ownership.

The company was connected to Vivian.

I stared at the screen in disbelief.

Even our home had a history with her.

I remembered how excited I had been when Adrian showed me the place.

I remembered running from room to room, imagining where we would put our books, where we would have dinner, where we might someday raise children.

I had thought Adrian was building our future.

Apparently, he had been preserving something that belonged to someone else.

I pulled up the original interior design plans.

The next discovery was almost laughable.

The designer had included notes about Vivian's preferences.

She liked warm lighting.

She preferred cream-colored walls.

She hated dark wood.

She wanted an open kitchen.

Every detail I had once thought Adrian had chosen because he knew me so well had been selected years before I ever entered the apartment.

I covered my mouth.

"How much of my life was actually mine?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Then I remembered the necklace.

Our fifth anniversary.

Adrian had given me a delicate gold necklace with a small sapphire pendant.

He had told me he had chosen it himself.

I had treasured it for years.

I searched through old files and found the jeweler's design record.

My hands went cold.

The original design notes contained a description of the inspiration.

A childhood keepsake belonging to Vivian Hart.

I sat completely still.

The necklace around my neck suddenly felt unbearably heavy.

I took it off and placed it on the desk.

For seven years, I had surrounded myself with things I believed were symbols of Adrian's love.

The house.

The necklace.

The vacations.

The gifts.

The memories.

And now I was discovering that pieces of another woman's life had been woven into all of them.

I had spent seven years living inside someone else's unfinished love story.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I opened another folder.

This one contained recent correspondence.

Most of it was encrypted, but several messages had been saved.

The dates were from six months ago.

Then five months.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The messages weren't about memories.

They were about preparations.

An apartment had been renovated.

A company position had been arranged.

Private accounts had been established.

Travel had been scheduled.

A medical appointment had been booked.

And beside one of the files was a note from Adrian's assistant.

Everything is ready for Vivian's permanent return.

I read the sentence twice.

Permanent return.

Not a visit.

Not a reunion.

Not a temporary stay.

Adrian had been preparing for Vivian to come back into his life for months.

I scrolled down.

There was one final document.

A reservation for a private residence, scheduled to begin three weeks from now.

Three weeks.

The same day our seven-year marriage would officially reach its deadline.

My fingers went cold.

Adrian wasn't simply waiting for Vivian to return.

He had been preparing a place for her.

And suddenly, I understood why he had seemed so relaxed about our anniversary.

He wasn't looking forward to celebrating seven years with me.

He was waiting for seven years to be over.