Chapter 1

On our third wedding anniversary, Alistair Sterling handed me the divorce papers. He said his first love was back, and she needed the title of Mrs. Sterling. I said okay.

Five years later, he sat across from me as a business partner. He stared at the mini-version of himself standing by my side. His hand shook so hard he couldn't even hold his coffee cup.

“Sera, come home with me,” he pleaded.

I smiled and turned the diamond ring on my left ring finger. “Mr. Sterling, there is no need for that.”

1 After three years of marriage, Alistair finally came home on time.

I had decanted the red wine and seared the steaks to a perfect medium-rare. The candles were lit, casting a warm glow over the table.

When he pushed the door open, he didn't have flowers or a gift. He only held a single piece of paper.

“Sign it,” he said.

He placed the paper next to my wine glass. The candlelight flickered over the bold letters: Divorce Agreement.

I stared at those words for about three seconds.

“Is Viviana back?” I asked.

He paused, clearly not expecting me to guess so easily. “She needs the status of my wife to handle some legalities. Once she settles down, we can―”

“We can what?” I looked him straight in the eyes. “Remarry?”

He stayed silent.

That was my answer. He didn't intend to.

I picked up the pen and flipped to the last page. His signature was already there―Alistair Sterling. The strokes were sharp and decisive, exactly like the day we signed our marriage license.

I signed my name just as decisively: Seraphina Vance.

“I don't want the assets,” I said, capping the pen. “You keep the house. I'm moving out tonight.”

He frowned. “There is no need to be in such a rush.”

“It was going to happen sooner or later anyway.”

I went upstairs to pack. My three-year marriage fit into a pitifully small suitcase―a few outfits, some books, and a makeup bag.

When I reached the nightstand, my hand hesitated.

In the very back of the drawer lay a pregnancy test. I had taken it this morning. Two pink lines.

I wrapped the test in a scarf and tucked it into the bottom of my suitcase.

When I came back downstairs, Alistair was by the window making a call. His voice was soft and his tone was incredibly gentle.

In three years, I had never heard him speak like that.

“Yes, it’s handled. Don't worry.”

Handled. He spoke as if I were a business transaction he just closed.