Chapter 1

I spent seven years in federal prison for a man.

A federal prison in West Virginia. For seven years, I washed clothes, folded sheets, and ate two thousand five hundred bowls of mushy potatoes in the cafeteria.

He visited me once. In the winter of my first year.

He wore a camel-hair coat, a watch peeking out from his cuff. I found out later that watch was worth one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

He told me the company was turning around, and his lawyers were helping me apply for a sentence reduction. He said, just wait one more year, and he would definitely come to get me.

I waited seven years.

In January of this year, I walked out of the prison gates.

No one was there to pick me up.

I went to the address he had left for me.

It was a forty-eight-story glass skyscraper. Etched into the outer wall in metal letters were two words: Sterling Corp.

Caspian Sterling.

I thought I was going home.

1

I stood under the skyscraper, looking up.

The glass curtain wall gleamed coldly in the January Manhattan sun. Two doormen in dark blue uniforms stood at the lobby entrance, and a dark gray Rolls-Royce was parked beside them.

Seven years ago, Caspian Sterling lived in a two-hundred-square-foot studio in Brooklyn. The bed was against the wall, and my elbows would hit the window whenever I turned over. The heat broke for three days in the winter, and he held me, saying, “Elena, just endure it a little longer. When the company takes off, I’ll buy you a big house with floor-to-ceiling windows.”

Now, he had floor-to-ceiling windows.

Forty-eight floors of them.

I took a deep breath and walked into the lobby.

The doorman glanced at me―jeans, an army-green cotton jacket, canvas shoes with worn-out soles, and a white canvas bag from the prison in my hand.

“Who are you looking for, ma’am?”

“Caspian Sterling.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“He knows.”

That was a lie. I didn’t know if he even knew I was out today. I didn’t even know if he still worked in this building.

The doorman made a call. He said a few things I couldn’t quite hear. After he hung up, his expression changed.

“Please go to the 38th floor. Someone will meet you there.”

As the elevator rose, I stared at the floor display. 22, 23, 24… My heart beat faster with every number.

The 38th floor arrived.

The elevator doors opened to a white marble reception desk. There was an abstract painting on the wall and a two-meter-tall fiddle-leaf fig in the corner.

A man in a black suit walked over.

“Ms. Elena Vance? Please, follow me.”

He said my name.

This proved Caspian Sterling knew I was here. And it wasn’t the first time―he had given instructions beforehand on how to handle me.

I was led into a corner office.

The office had a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Central Park. There was a dark solid wood desk with nothing on it but a laptop and a half-finished cup of coffee.

Caspian Sterling sat behind the desk.

He wore a dark gray suit with the shirt buttoned to the very top. His hair was slicked back with gel, not a strand out of place. His jawline was harder than it had been seven years ago, his eye sockets deeper, his cheekbones higher.

He looked good. Far better than seven years ago.

That kind of beauty was bought with money.

His first reaction upon seeing me wasn’t to stand up, walk over, or say my name.

He pressed a button on the phone on his desk.

“Cancel my afternoon meeting.”

Then he looked at me.

“Sit.”

I sat down. I placed my canvas bag by my feet.

“Seven years,” I said.

“Hmm.”

“You said to wait one more year.”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced over his stomach.

“Plans change.”

“What changed?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

He stood up and walked to the window. He turned his back to me. Central Park spread out outside, the snow still unmelted.

“Elena, let me be honest with you.”

He turned around.

“I’m getting married tomorrow. At the Plaza.”

My fingers tightened on my knees.

I waited for him to explain. I waited for him to say “but”―but he didn’t.

“The bride is Genevieve Montgomery. Her father is the chairman of the Montgomery Group. After the two companies merge, Sterling Corp will enter the Fortune 500.”

“Merge.”

“A marriage of convenience.”

His tone was like he was reporting a business decision. I wasn’t his ex-girlfriend; I was just a stakeholder who needed to be notified.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Seven years. I wrote him a letter every month in prison. He replied to three in the first year. One in the second year. After the third year, I didn’t get a single one.

I comforted myself: He’s busy. He’s starting a business. He’s saving money for my lawyer.

He was getting married.

“When is the wedding?” I asked.

“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

January 13th.

My release date was January 12th.

He scheduled the wedding for the day after I got out.

This wasn’t a coincidence. He had planned it all out―ensuring that the moment I walked out, I would see a Caspian Sterling who was already spoken for. A Caspian Sterling who had nothing to do with me anymore.

“You did this on purpose,” I said.

He didn’t deny it.

“Caspian Sterling, one last thing.”

He looked at me.

“The confession seven years ago―the documents you made me sign. You knew the amounts and the transactions were all fake. You knew the transfer orders came from you. You knew that money went into your private account.”

The office was silent for five seconds.

“Elena,” his voice was devoid of emotion. “You spent seven years in federal prison. It’s time to let it go.”

He didn’t deny it.

He chose the safest path between admitting and denying―silence.

But I understood.

He knew everything. From day one. He made me sign that confession not because the evidence pointed to me, but because he needed someone to take the fall.

And I happened to be that person.

I stood up from the chair.

“Seven years of prison, Caspian Sterling.”

“I will compensate you.” He picked up a pen on the desk, wrote some numbers on a check, tore it off, and handed it to me. “Two million. Enough for you to start over.”

I looked at the check.

Then I looked at his face.

Seven years ago, he knelt on the floor of that studio apartment, hugging my legs, saying, “Elena, only you can save me.”

“Keep it to buy yourself a wreath.”

I tore the check in half and placed it on his desk.

As I turned to walk out of the office, I heard him press the phone.

“Security.”