Chapter 1

1.

At a members-only club in downtown Manhattan, someone asked Caleb Thorne a question during a game of Truth or Dare: "If you had a time machine, would you choose Blair or Harper?"

Caleb swirled the single malt scotch in his hand, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. His eyes were hazy, drifting with a melancholic drunkenness. "We were broke back then," he said, "living in that shitty apartment in Brooklyn. A girl like Blair, raised with a silver spoon, would have been miserable with me."

So, he chose me, Harper Reed.

But things were different now.

Caleb’s company had rung the bell at NASDAQ. He had money, power. He was the new king of Wall Street.

He protected Blair like she was some rare, delicate creature. He'd even drop to one knee in public just to fasten the strap on her red-bottomed heels.

As for me? He didn't seem to get me at all.

"I've already given you the title of Mrs. Thorne, something countless women would kill for. What more could you possibly want?"

...

Today was my thirtieth birthday.

Caleb asked me what I wished for.

I took off the ridiculously expensive diamond earrings he’d given me and tossed them onto the vanity. As I blew out the candles, I clasped my hands together, feigning devotion. "I wish for us to get a divorce. Quickly."

His movements froze. The polite, social smile vanished from his face.

After a long moment, he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Still pissed?"

"I made it back, didn't I?"

"And stop throwing the word 'divorce' around."

I just looked at him. His face was etched with the fatigue of long-haul travel―a week of skiing with Blair in the Swiss Alps, a nine-hour flight across the Atlantic, and then the traffic jam from JFK to Manhattan. He'd had his personal assistant order a cake in advance and had even cooked my favorite filet mignon himself, still dressed in his expensive custom-tailored suit.

A few years ago, I might have burst into tears of gratitude.

But not this year. I looked at him and felt nothing. Not a single thing, except maybe a flicker of annoyance. I met his eyes, my face a blank mask.

"A divorce," I repeated, my voice flat. "Did you hear me clearly this time?"

Caleb’s face turned to ice. His jaw tightened, the muscle pulsing. He kicked back the chair beside him, and the expensive Italian designer piece screeched across the marble floor.

"Harper, that's enough."

"I didn't miss your birthday. I rushed back," he said, taking a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. "Can we please talk about this calmly?"

"I'm going to take a shower."

With that, he turned and walked up the spiral staircase without a backward glance.

I glanced at the sickeningly sweet red velvet cake and the now-cold steak on the table. My friends had booked a bar in the Meatpacking District for me. There was supposed to be champagne, music, a crowd. A wild night. But it was all ruined by Caleb's sudden appearance.

He had played the part of the perfect, gentlemanly husband in front of everyone, taking my hand and saying to my friends, "Can I borrow Harper for the night?" Then he had forcefully taken me away. I didn’t fight it. I even wore a polite smile.

It wasn't because I was happy. It was because after so long in this world, being "proper" had become muscle memory.