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’m… sorry,” she said at last. “Are you serious?”

I stiffened. “About my husband being sick?”

“No, I—” She shook her head quickly, at war with good customer service. “The man you’re describing… he owns this company. Our boss. The CEO.”

My heart stuttered in my chest.

“Owns?” The word came out wrong, oddly shaped in my mouth, like it belonged to someone else’s language.

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes scanning my face, my cardigan, the worn strap of my bag.

“Mr. Steven Condan,” she said carefully. “Our CEO. He and his wife come and leave together almost every day. Unless…”

She trailed off, and I watched the thought land in her mind.

“Unless you’re not his wife.”

I didn’t drop the folder, but my fingers loosened. I think something in my face must have given me away, because her expression softened instantly, alarm replacing confusion.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “perhaps I misunderstood. There might be—”

The chime of the elevator behind me cut through her words.

I turned.

And there he was.

Steven stepped out of the elevator in a navy suit that fit perfectly across his shoulders, the kind of tailoring you don’t get on discount. His hair was freshly cut, his shoes gleamed, and in that moment he looked like every photograph of relentless success I’d ever seen in business magazines in supermarket racks.

His arm was around a woman.

She was beautiful the way expensive things are beautiful—deliberately, precisely, in a way that announced effort and cost. Her dark hair fell in glossy waves over the collar of her ivory coat. Her heels were sharp and high, clicking against the marble like punctuation. She carried a handbag I recognized instantly from the times I’d dared to linger in front of boutique windows.

Hermès. I didn’t know the model, but I knew the price range.

His hand rested on the small of her back with a familiarity that pierced me.

They were laughing when they stepped out, some private joke between them. Then he saw me.

The smile died slowly, like someone turning down a dimmer switch. His steps faltered. His eyes widened, color draining from his face until he looked almost as pale as the lilies behind the reception desk.

For a heartbeat, none of us moved. The receptionist went utterly silent. The office noise beyond the glass seemed to recede, leaving only the low hum of the air conditioning and the roar of blood in my ears.