Chapter 2

Julian went quiet for a long moment.

"Grandma," he finally said, "don't let Nora hear you say that."

I was standing on the other side of the terrace. My fingers gripped the railing so hard my knuckles went white.

"Why are you out here alone in the wind? You'll catch a cold."

Julian's warm voice came from behind me.

He draped a jacket over my shoulders and slipped his arms around my waist from behind.

My whole body went rigid.

His grandmother's words kept echoing through my head.

Julian took my hand. "Nora, why are your hands so cold?"

He brought my fingers to his lips and breathed warm air against them.

I turned around and pulled my hand back, keeping my face blank.

"Julian," I said, "who am I to you?"

Looking into his tender eyes, I couldn't stop the memories of the past three years flooding back.

Every single night, without fail, he'd bring me a warm glass of milk before bed.

When my cramps were bad, he'd cancel billion-dollar deals just to stay home and rub my stomach all night.

And all of it had been for another woman?

He reached up and touched my hair.

"Silly girl. Do you really have to ask? You're my wife. The love of my life."

I opened my mouth to speak, but his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen. His expression didn't change.

"Nora, something's come up in Europe. I need to take a video call in the study."

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

"Be good. Go to sleep without me."

I stood there, numb, watching him disappear.

I went back to the bedroom alone.

On the nightstand, the tablet Julian used to read financial news suddenly lit up.

A chat window popped open. No name saved for the contact.

A photo came through.

The background was a high-end hotel somewhere in Harbor City.

In the photo, a woman was wearing a black lace slip dress, her eyes soft and liquid.

Her features were sharp and carefully sculpted.

But even so, I could see it. The shape of her face carried an echo of mine.

Chelsea Churchill. The eldest daughter of the Churchill family.

Before I could even react, the chat log vanished.

Julian had wiped the messages from his end.

Less than a minute later, I heard footsteps in the hallway, deliberately quiet.

Then the sound of an engine fading into the distance.

I pressed both hands flat against the bedsheets.

After a moment, I took a slow, deep breath.

I used the hotel logo barely visible in the background of the photo to track down the location, and called a cab.