Chapter 1

My world ended with a Dropbox link.

Not with a bang, but with the quiet click of a mouse in my small home office, the one Andrew always called my "little hobby space."

The link arrived in an email from Andrew's campaign office, subject line: FINAL - Wedding Reel. I was expecting a montage of us, a sappy video to be played at the reception. Our life, from the foster home to the steps of City Hall, condensed into three minutes of PR-approved love.

I clicked.

It wasn't a video. It was a folder of high-resolution photos. Professionally shot. The lighting was perfect, the kind that makes everything look important.

Andrew was in every shot, looking like the political star he was becoming. But the woman next to him wasn't me.

It was Molly Chavez, his intern.

They were posed in his office, laughing over policy papers. They were at a charity gala, his hand possessively on the small of her back. They were on the steps of the Capitol, looking out at the city, a perfect "power couple" for a future campaign.

My hands went cold. I stared at the screen, my mind refusing to process the images. It was so blatant, so… planned. This wasn't a mistake. This was a replacement.

My phone rang. The caller ID showed Molly's name.

I answered, my voice a stranger's.

"Hello?"

"Gabrielle? Oh my god, I am so, so sorry."

Her voice was thick with fake tears.

"There was a mix-up with the files. The photographer sent the wrong link. I am so embarrassed. Please don't be mad at Andrew."

Then, I heard his voice in the background. Not muffled, but clear. He wasn't even trying to hide.

"It's fine," he said, his tone dripping with the condescending calm he used when he was placating someone he considered beneath him. "She won't do anything. She needs me and this life."

She needs me.

The words hit me. Not with pain, but with a sudden, shocking clarity. All the little dismissals, the forgotten promises, the way he looked at me lately-it all clicked into place. I wasn't his partner. I was a relic. A part of his "struggle" narrative that he was ready to discard.

I didn't say anything to Molly. I just hung up the phone.

I sat there for a moment, the photos of Andrew and Molly burning on my screen. I thought about the prenuptial agreement his family's lawyer had pushed on me, the one that ensured I would walk away with nothing from the Scott political and financial legacy. I thought about the speeches I wrote, the policies I drafted, the entire foundation of his career that I built with my own two hands, all uncredited.

He was right about one thing. The Gabrielle he knew needed him.

But that Gabrielle just died.

I picked up my phone again. I didn't call him. I didn't call Molly.

I called my lawyer.

"Hi, it's Gabrielle Fuller," I said, my voice steady and calm. "I need you to draw up the divorce papers. Yes, effective immediately."