Chapter 1

1.

"Sign it, Vivian."

Lucas Sterling's long fingers tapped against the mahogany desk, pushing the divorce papers toward me.

Behind him, the lights of Billionaire's Row glittered coldly in the Manhattan night. But my eyes were fixed on the faint, pale band of skin on his ring finger. It was where our wedding ring used to be. He’d taken his off long ago, tossing it into some forgotten drawer.

"Ten years of marriage, and you're trying to get rid of me for a hundred thousand dollars?"

I looked up at him, my voice surprisingly calm.

Lucas let out a contemptuous scoff. He undid the top button of his Tom Ford suit, a lazy, arrogant posture, just like the one he had on the cover of Forbes.

"What else?" he shot back. "What do you think you're entitled to?"

"Vivian, you need to know your place. In ten years, what have you ever done for Sterling Industries, besides arrange flowers in our Greenwich Village townhouse or vacation in the Hamptons? According to the prenup, you leave with nothing."

"This hundred grand is a favor, for old times' sake. Think of it as severance for a long-term employee. Don't even dream of getting a single cent from my company."

I looked at his smug face, and a wave of bitter irony washed over me.

No contribution?

That ski party in Aspen where you sealed the deal with the Goldman Sachs partner? Who spent three months planning every seating arrangement, every vintage of wine? And your arms deal with the Saudi prince? Who broke the ice for you in fluent Arabic at that charity gala? For ten years, behind every successful negotiation, every partnership you landed, I was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes.

But I didn't say any of that. Because in my last life, I had screamed those words through tears, and all I got in return was his deeper mockery.

Yes, I've been reborn.

In my last life, I begged him. In return, I was dragged out of his Fifth Avenue office tower like a piece of trash by security. I ended up in a rundown apartment in Queens, where I died in an "accidental" gas leak.

This time around, I just want to watch his empire burn to the ground.

...

I picked up the Montblanc pen and signed my name with a flourish: Vivian Wells.

"Good." Lucas glanced at my signature, his brow furrowed, as if my compliance surprised him.

I ignored him, took the hundred-thousand-dollar check, and turned toward the heavy oak door.

"You should keep it," I said over my shoulder. "You're going to need it for your legal fees."

The moment the door clicked shut, I heard the sound of an expensive whiskey glass shattering against the wall behind me.

I walked to the parking garage and got into the Volvo that would soon no longer be mine. I looked at the tired woman in the rearview mirror. Fine lines around her eyes, dull skin, a head of lifeless brown hair―that was all ten years of marriage had left me.

I pulled the wedding ring from my finger and stuffed it into a paper bag with my old business cards. Their final destination would be a dumpster.

I wasn't Vivian Sterling anymore. I wasn't Mrs. anyone. New York, get ready to meet the real Vivian Wells.

The next day, I was standing on the top floor of the Vance Capital building.

This was the heart of Midtown Manhattan, and the turf of Lucas's biggest business rival―Damian Vance.

The receptionist looked me up and down like a desperate housewife who'd wandered onto the wrong movie set. My clothes were completely out of place in the building's cold, minimalist aesthetic.

I just gave her Damian's name.

"Tell him Lucas Sterling's ex-wife has a billion-dollar gift for him."

Five minutes later, I met Damian Vance.

The man was leaning back in an Eames lounge chair, his legs crossed, holding a cup of espresso. He raised his eyes, his gaze sharp as he sized me up, like he was evaluating a unicorn startup about to list on the Nasdaq.

He was more―I don't know how to describe it―dangerously attractive than in his photos. His dark brown eyes looked almost black under the cool lights, his jawline as hard and sharp as the Manhattan skyline. And his hands―long, powerful, now slowly turning the coffee cup―made it difficult not to imagine them gripping other things.

I mentally slapped myself. Focus, Vivian. This isn't a date.

"Sterling's ex-wife?" he said, his voice low, laced with the kind of detached confidence unique to the Ivy League elite.

I placed the hundred-thousand-dollar check on the marble table in front of him.

"This is my buy-in."

His eyes were playful, like a panther watching its prey. "And why should I help you? Vance Capital isn't a charity."

I leaned forward, closer to him. A scent of bergamot and cedar cologne, mixed with the faint warmth of his body, hit me. I stared directly into his eyes and said, word by word:

"Because I know every single strategic decision Sterling Industries will make for the next ten years. And―I know about the illegitimate son he's hiding in Zurich."

Damian's pupils contracted instantly.

He sat up straight, the lazy posture gone, replaced by the shrewdness of a Wall Street shark. As he leaned in, the distance between us closed so much I could see the intricate patterns in his irises.

"Elaborate."

I didn't answer right away. A flash of my past life appeared in my mind―after my death, I watched Lucas throw a lavish birthday party for his bastard son at their villa on Lake Zurich. I watched him wrap his arm around his model-turned-mistress and tell the media I was the biggest "bad asset" of his life.

The overwhelming hatred almost consumed me.

Damian narrowed his eyes, studying me with suspicion. "Talk is cheap, Ms. Wells."

"Lucas is secretly flying to Palo Alto next week to meet with the CEO of NovaTech about an acquisition. But the deal will collapse at the last minute over a patent dispute for a core algorithm."

I threw out my first piece of bait.

"Is that inside information enough for you to verify my value?"

Damian's fingertips tapped lightly on the armrest. He was calculating the risk and reward.

Three days later, his private assistant called me back.

"Ms. Wells, you were right. The deal was called off."

The next time we met, Damian's attitude was completely different. He poured me a glass of sparkling water himself.

"Now," he said. "We can talk about that piece of land at the Brooklyn Navy Yard."