Chapter 1

It was our eighth wedding anniversary, a day I used to circle on the calendar with a red heart. This year, the circle was empty. I spent the afternoon crafting a perfect chocolate lava cake, Andrew' s favorite, the scent of melted dark chocolate filling a home that had grown too quiet.

He was supposed to be in a late-night "strategy session," a common occurrence as his City Councilman star continued to rise. But my best friend, Molly, a journalist with an ear for political gossip, had texted me an hour ago.

"He' s not at City Hall, Jen. The whole crew is at The Gilded Steer. Something about celebrating a new poll."

I knew the place. It was a high-end steakhouse where deals were made over whiskey and marbled ribeyes, a place Andrew only went to when he was sealing a victory. I told myself I was just going to drop off the cake, a sweet surprise to remind him of home.

But a cold knot was already forming in my stomach.

I found them easily, tucked into a plush corner booth. Andrew, charismatic and loud, was holding court with his sycophantic aides and a few old fraternity brothers. And next to him, practically glued to his side, was Madisyn Chavez. His 21-year-old intern.

I hid behind a large decorative pillar, the cake box feeling heavy and ridiculous in my hands. The sound of their laughter carried across the restaurant, sharp and grating.

Then I heard Andrew' s voice, slurred with expensive scotch.

"To the campaign!" one of his friends toasted.

Andrew laughed, a deep, booming sound that used to make my heart flutter. "To the campaign," he echoed, then leaned in conspiratorially. "And to the assets that make it all possible."

He gestured vaguely in my direction, though he couldn't see me. "Jennifer... she' s the perfect political asset. Flawless image, always supportive. The voters love her."

A wave of something dark and bitter rose in my throat.

"But," he continued, his voice dropping, "she' s yesterday' s news. A reliable, boring sedan. Gets you from A to B, but there' s no thrill, you know?" He then squeezed Madisyn' s shoulder, his eyes gleaming. "Now Madisyn here… she' s the new sports car. All sleek lines and a whole lot of horsepower."

The table erupted in lewd laughter. Madisyn looked up at him, a pout on her young lips. "But you' re still driving the sedan home, Andrew."

Andrew placated her instantly, his hand moving from her shoulder to her back, rubbing slow circles. "Baby, you know the deal. I' m stuck with the marriage for now. It' s a career move. But passion? Excitement?" He scoffed. "She' s passionless. I can' t even stand to touch her anymore."

The words hit me harder than a physical blow. Passionless. Stuck. An asset.

A memory flared, hot and shameful. A fundraiser last year. One of Andrew' s aides had made a crude, sexist joke about the slit in my dress. I had turned to walk away, my face burning, but Andrew had grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.

"Don' t make a scene, Jennifer," he' d hissed in my ear. "Go apologize to him. We need him on our side. Keep the peace. Don' t damage the campaign."

I had apologized. To keep the peace. For his career.

Now, listening to him dismiss me so easily, so cruelly, I finally understood. The peace I was keeping was his, not mine. The life I had sacrificed my own career for was a stage, and I was just a prop.

I looked at the cake in my hands, the one I' d baked with love and a foolish hope for our anniversary. My hands were shaking.

I turned around, walked out of the restaurant, and didn't look back. I found the nearest trash can on the street corner and dropped the cake box inside. The thud was final.

There would be no more apologies. There would be no more keeping the peace.

And for Andrew Scott, there would be no forgiveness.