Part 2The Billionaire's Divorce Papers

When Wyatt and I got married, we kept it quiet. Outside of our parents and a few close friends, no one knew.

My mother complained about it privately. “The Hayes family is wonderful, yes, but to have my daughter marry in secret after I’ve raised her for twenty-something years… It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

But this was the man I’d been in love with for more than a decade.

No one knew the electric shock of joy that went through me when I heard he and Angelica had broken up. And no one could possibly understand how my heart hammered against my ribs when his father, drunk at a dinner party, started playing armchair matchmaker.

For me, all the pomp and circumstance in the world couldn’t compare to the moment Wyatt nodded his assent.

The secret marriage was my idea. The night before we went to City Hall, I found him with a friend who was teasing him.

“The second news of this wedding gets out, Angelica’s going to be on the first flight back to New York.”

Wyatt was lighting a cigarette and didn’t answer. When he saw me walk in, he just smiled, as if nothing had happened, and wrapped an arm around my waist.

I met the friend’s shocked gaze as I gently plucked the cigarette from between Wyatt’s lips. “Let’s not announce our marriage to anyone,” I said. “I have no interest in being the catalyst for someone else’s drama.”

From the very first day, I was honest with him about everything, except for the small fact that I’d loved him for most of my life.

I told him flat-out that I couldn’t stand Angelica. I told him I was in this to build a real life with him.

“I can accept that it will take time for you to get to know me, to maybe even grow to love me,” I’d said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But I cannot accept being with you if your heart is still with someone else. If you can’t do that, we should end this now, before it begins.”

I remember he laughed, a low, soft sound. Then he dipped his head and his mouth found mine in a deep, possessive kiss.

Just like now. He understood exactly what I was saying. He turned to his friend, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “You hear that? Watch what you say next time.”

The next day, he made sure every detail was locked down. The city clerk came to our apartment to officiate.

So, no, I couldn’t blame the internet for their speculation. But seeing that photo—the one of his car at JFK—still felt like a punch to the gut. The reporter claimed to have been in the car right next to his. I zoomed in on the image, and through the dark, tinted window, I could have sworn I saw the silhouette of his profile.

Below it was a clip of Angelica’s airport interview. Someone had asked, feigning innocence, “It’s so late, Miss Monroe. Do you have someone special picking you up?”

A blush bloomed across her perfect face. She answered with a coy little smile, “That’s a secret.”

There’s nothing more dangerous than a half-answer and a well-timed coincidence. Together, they plant a seed of doubt that grows, twisting your thoughts down paths you can’t control.

In that moment, I forgot the fierce, desperate way he’d made love to me when he got home, pressing his forehead to mine and murmuring that I was cruel for leaving him all alone.

All I could remember was that he didn’t get home until three in the morning. I remembered the faint, sweet scent of roses clinging to his clothes.

And I remembered how the gossip, which had been the top headline when I woke up, was scrubbed from the internet within half an hour, the search terms completely blocked.

And his quiet phone call to his assistant, when he thought I was still asleep. “Get every mention of it taken down. If any of this gets out, it’ll be bad for her.”

For her. Not for us.