Chapter 2

"Why haven't you signed the voting proxy?"

The moment I returned to the office, Grant demanded the document.

Tessa was perched against the edge of his desk, eating breakfast. A pharmacy bag with my name printed on it sat near her elbow.

It was always the same. Grant would offer me candy with one hand while sliding a knife between my ribs with the other.

I set the proxy on his desk.

"Legal says it's permanent."

"What difference does that make?" Impatience sharpened his voice. "You don't understand corporate finance. Leaving the voting rights with you only jeopardizes the deal."

"So you made the decision for me?"

"For the past three years, who do you think has cleaned up every mess you've made?"

Tessa pushed an iced coffee toward me. "If you can't even trust your husband, what is the point of staying married?"

"If he's my husband, why are you his date to the charity gala? Why did you get my promotion and the credit for the Westbridge project?"

Grant capped his pen.

"The investors want the project lead to have a public track record. Our marriage cannot be disclosed yet, and you're bad at networking. Tessa is better suited to be the public face of the project."

So protecting his funding and his control justified erasing both my identity and my work.

"I spent four months developing that plan. She has worked here for twelve days."

Tessa gave a soft laugh. "Without Grant and this company's resources, your designs are worthless."

Grant did not contradict her. He simply opened a drawer and took out a jewelry box.

Inside was a sapphire necklace.

During our first year of marriage, I had lingered over the same necklace in an auction catalog. Grant had called it gaudy.

Now he pushed the box toward me.

"Sign the proxy and it's yours. Stop throwing a tantrum over nothing."

Tessa picked it up before I could touch it and fastened it around her neck.

"I thought you bought this for me."

"I only let you borrow it once."

"But I love it. Does it look good?"

Grant glanced at her. "Yes."

Then he turned to me. "I'll buy you another one."

I pushed the empty box back across the desk.

"Don't bother. I don't want something after she's worn it. It feels dirty."

Tessa blinked, her voice catching on cue. "Are you talking about the necklace or me?"

Grant stepped in front of her.

"Apologize, Claire."

"She took what belonged to me. Why should I apologize?"

"It's a necklace. I'll replace it. Do you have to humiliate everyone in the room?"

I laughed.

My career, my dignity, even the things I loved were all insignificant to him. Anything could be taken from me as long as he promised compensation afterward.

"I'm sorry," I said to Tessa. "You're right. Other people's leftovers suit you much better."

Grant grabbed my wrist. When his fingers pressed against the puncture left by my IV, his grip loosened on instinct.

"Don't make me deal with you as an employee."

"And what exactly are you going to do, fire me?"

"I'm removing you from every role on the Westbridge project. You can spend some time in Records until you've calmed down."

"Fine."

The Records archive held the original invoices, vendor contracts, and approval logs for every major transaction.

I had been wondering how to investigate several suspicious transactions without Grant looking over my shoulder.

By evening, an administrator delivered a box to my new desk. Inside were an air purifier and allergy medicine.

"Mr. Hayes said Records was recently renovated. He told us to air it out before you moved in."

Whispers followed me through the office.

"She crossed Tessa. Her career is over."

"Mr. Hayes has never even admitted they're together, and she acts like she owns the place."

I carried the box past the conference room.

On the presentation screen, Tessa Morgan was listed as the lead for the Westbridge project.

She was presenting my plan. Grant sat in the front row, watching her with an approval he had never once shown me.

Grant's assistant hurried after me and tucked a crumpled envelope into the cardboard box in my arms.

"Claire, Grant asked me to give this back to you."

Inside was the letter I had written for our third anniversary.

Grant had circled the final line in red.

[Once the company is stable, can we finally tell people we're married?]

Beside it, he had written:

[Childish. Marriage isn't something you perform for an audience.]

Beneath that, pressed so hard into the page that the pen had nearly torn through it, was one more word:

[Pathetic.]

A printed screenshot had been folded behind the letter. It showed that Grant had photographed the final paragraph and posted it in the private group chat.

He had not merely rejected me. He had invited everyone else to laugh.