Chapter 2

Grace POV:

Sitting on the cold closet floor, I stared at the screen. The background of the photo was the VIP underground garage at Madison Square Garden, and the red Aston Martin was the birthday gift I had bought Keon last year with my own bonus.

A text sat right below the image.

"Your man is mine now."

It didn't take a genius to know it was from Adrianna Sharpe.

I didn't reply. Instead, I forwarded the screenshot to my best friend and lawyer, Jetta Hill, with a short note.

"Evidence plus one. Speed up the asset liquidation."

At seven the next morning, the consignment brokers arrived at the penthouse. I stood by the door with my arms crossed, watching them pack millions of dollars worth of jewelry into armored cases, turning eight years of hollow apologies into wire transfers headed for my offshore account.

By afternoon, a torrential downpour hit New York, turning the sky the color of lead. My work phone buzzed with an urgent notice from the Titans PR department, calling me into Madison Square Garden to handle a sudden media leak.

I took the elevator down to the penthouse garage, drove to the arena, and parked in the staff lot. Carrying my black umbrella as I walked toward the VIP section to take the shortcut, the headlights of a familiar red Aston Martin flashed in the corner.

My footsteps slowed. Through the rain-streaked windshield, Adrianna was straddling Keon's lap in the passenger seat, her hands tangled in his hair.

I walked over, gripped the cold metal handle, and yanked the car door open. Wind and rain blew into the cramped cabin, and the two of them scrambled apart.

Keon's shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Panic flashed across his face when he saw me, quickly replaced by a scowl as he raked a hand through his black hair.

"Grace? Are you stalking me now?"

I looked past him at Adrianna, who was smirking as she wiped her smeared lip gloss, and kept my voice even.

"Leave the keys. The title of this car is under my pre-marital assets."

Adrianna let out a shrill laugh and wrapped her arms around Keon's neck.

"Keon, why is your ex-girlfriend acting like a beggar? Who asks for a birthday present back?"

Keon yanked his tie loose, his voice dropping into a warning growl.

"Grace, stop making a scene here. Save us both some embarrassment."

Rainwater dripped from the edge of my umbrella onto my trench coat. I looked straight into his eyes.

"Let's get a divorce, Keon. Tomorrow morning."

Keon froze for a second before letting out an annoyed bark of laughter.

"A divorce? What kind of hard-to-get game are you playing now? Stop embarrassing yourself and go home."

He didn't believe a word I said. He slammed his thumb onto the ignition button, pulled the door shut, and gunned the engine, the Aston Martin roaring out of the garage and splashing muddy water across my calves.

I stood alone in the empty concrete lot, wiped a drop of dirty water from my cheek, and pulled out my phone to call a real estate agent.

"Find me a high-security apartment in Brooklyn or Long Island. Ready for immediate move-in."

Hanging up, I walked back to my SUV, got inside, and turned on the heater. Catching my reflection in the rearview mirror, I smoothed back my damp hair, my eyes hard.

When I drove back to the empty penthouse that night, Keon wasn't there, and my phone was completely devoid of any texts from him.

I walked into the study, plugged in the heavy-duty shredder, and fed every love letter, postcard, and diary entry from the past eight years into the blades.

The machine whirred loudly, reducing my twenties into a pile of unreadable paper strips.

It felt like hours had passed, and yet like only a moment. By the time I had packed everything and came out of the study, I glanced up at the clock—it was already two in the morning.

I let out a cold laugh. Good. He wasn't home, so at least he wouldn't be in my way.

Carrying a heavy black trash bag, I went back to the walk-in closet and stuffed in every tight, revealing dress Keon had ever bought to show me off like a trophy.

I changed into a sharp black tailored pantsuit and zipped up my remaining suitcases. Just as I set the last box down by the front door, the electronic lock beeped abruptly—someone was punching in the keypad code from outside.