When my husband fell seriously ill, I finally had a reason to step into his office after seven years of marriage. All I wanted was to ask for his sick leave. Instead, the receptionist froze, eyes widening as she studied my face. “The man you’re talking about… he owns this company. Our boss and his wife arrive and leave together every day. Unless… you’re not his wife.” In that second, my world cracked open.

I had taken back my maiden name quietly, filling out forms and updating documents until “Sunny Condan” was nothing more than ink on old certificates.

“Good morning, Jessica,” I replied.

My heels clicked confidently across the marble. They were no longer scuffed, no longer secondhand. The beige cardigan had been retired long ago. I wore a tailored suit, soft against my skin, and on my arm hung two bags.

Both Hermès.

One carried my laptop. The other, nothing practical at all. It didn’t need to. It was there simply because once upon a time, I’d stood outside a window and wished, and now I didn’t have to wish anymore.

The private elevator took me to the top floor. People glanced up as I walked past glass-walled offices, some nodding respectfully, others quickly sitting up straighter.

I entered the boardroom.

Steven stood at the head of the table, presenting quarterly figures on a screen. His voice faltered when he saw me in the doorway.

“Please continue,” I said, taking my seat at the head of the table—the seat he used to occupy.

He cleared his throat.

“Profits are up twelve percent year-over-year,” he said, recovering his rhythm. “Our new product line has been particularly successful in the Asia-Pacific market—”

“Good,” I said when he finished. “Then we can increase our charitable contributions. I want the women’s shelter’s budget doubled this year. And the scholarship fund expanded.”

A murmur of assent went around the table. The CFO made a note.

After the meeting, as the others filed out, Steven lingered.

“Sunny,” he said.

“Ms. Summers,” I corrected, not looking up from my tablet.

He swallowed. “Ms. Summers,” he amended. “I… ran into Genevieve the other day. She’s working at a cosmetics counter in the mall. The… rich boyfriend dumped her. She says she didn’t know about the marriage. That I lied to her, too.”

“I don’t care,” I said. And I didn’t. Not anymore. Spoiled princesses and their consequences no longer had a place in my emotional budget.

“I miss you,” he blurted.

The words made me pause, but only for a moment.

“I don’t mean the money,” he added quickly. “I mean… I miss coming home to someone who actually asked how my day was. Someone who made soup when I was sick. Who sat on the floor with me when everything fell apart and still believed I could get back up.”

I looked at him properly for the first time in weeks.