At 3:17 a.m., my billionaire husband quietly unlocked the private elevator, convinced I would be asleep. Instead… He walked into the most expensive mistake of his life. I was standing barefoot in our Manhattan penthouse, one hand resting over my five-month pregnant belly, the other holding a crystal tumbler engraved with his initials. The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like nothing in the world had changed. But everything already had. The elevator doors slid open. Damien Ashcroft. Forty-one years old. Wall Street’s youngest billionaire. The man newspapers called ruthless. The man I had once called home. He loosened his tie as he stepped inside, humming softly to himself. Then he saw me.
PART 2 The black town car rolled through the sleeping streets of Manhattan while rain blurred the skyline into streaks of silver. By the time we crossed…