Part 1The Billionaire's Divorce Papers

The night my nemesis, Angelica Monroe, made her grand return to New York, Wyatt Hayes—heir to half of Manhattan, it seemed—materialized at JFK.

The society pages practically exploded. Before the ink was dry, rumors of their rekindled romance were the headline on every gossip blog.

For the next two weeks, my social media feed was a minefield of their shared existence. Paparazzi shots of them slipping into the same exclusive Soho high-rise.“Sources close to the couple” spilling saccharine details of their reunion.

Then, a photo I’d tried to forget resurfaced: me, presenting Wyatt with a birthday cake last year. It became the internet’s favorite punchline.

“All those years Nina Parker spent chasing after Wyatt, and it took Angelica one day to get him back.”

“Honestly, they should just get married already. Then maybe these desperate wannabes would stop buzzing around him like flies.”

Angelica posted a picture to her private Instagram, a calculated leak of two hands clasped together, captioned with sickeningly sweet text:

“We took the long way, but I’m so glad we found our way back to each other.”

To make it easier for the star-crossed lovers, I packed my bags, left a signed divorce agreement on the bed, and walked away.

The result? A complete and utter meltdown from the man in question. A voicemail, choked with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob, accused me, “When other guys get dragged through the mud online, their wives have their backs. You just leave. How could you be so cruel?”

* * *

My flight back from a business trip landed at the same time as Angelica’s triumphant return from Europe.

Years apart had done nothing to dim her shine. She was still effortlessly incandescent, the kind of woman who becomes the gravitational center of any room she enters.

The news of her split with Wyatt before she left had been the talk of the town. Now that she was back, every reporter with a pulse was scrambling for the scoop. A swarm of them surrounded her, a cacophony of questions and flashing cameras choking the exit. I pulled my mask up higher, sinking into the collar of my coat, and tried to slip past unnoticed.

The last thing I needed was for her to recognize me.

We’d been rivals since kindergarten, a constant, petty war of attrition waged over grades, friends, and social standing. But all our childhood squabbles paled in comparison to the one truly staggering fact: her first love was now my husband.

A year after she left the country, Wyatt and I got married. This is the third year of our secret marriage.

I overheard two journalists who hadn’t managed to break through the scrum, whispering excitedly beside me.

“I got a shot of Wyatt Hayes’s car. That’s the real story.”

“What’s he doing at the airport this late?”

“What do you think? He hasn’t seriously dated anyone since Angelica. The queen is back; the king has to show up and kiss the ring, right?”

My fingers, wrapped around the handle of my suitcase, went numb with cold.

My flight was supposed to be tomorrow morning. Wyatt had changed it. “We have a family thing tomorrow,” he’d said. “Come back tonight.”

He told me he was busy, that he’d sent his assistant to pick me up.

“Are you sure it was him? It’s dark out.”

“A license plate like that? In this city? My eyes might be shot, but my ten-thousand-dollar camera lens isn’t. Just wait. Tomorrow’s headlines are going to be epic.”

The assistant, driving a nondescript black sedan, greeted me with a respectful, “Mrs. Hayes.” But his eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine, and I could practically smell the guilt rolling off him.

“Is Wyatt still working?”

“Yes… but Mr. Hayes said he’ll be home to see you tonight…”

It was one in the morning. Wyatt Hayes didn’t work late. Ever.

The subtext was loud and clear: He’ll be home eventually. Don’t ask where he’s been.