The paparazzi snapped the picture right after my fender bender. My husband, Julian Vance, didn't even flinch. He just leaned one arm casually on the open window of his Porsche, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the photographer. "Got your scandal, huh? Make sure you send the invoice to my wife. She loves handling this kind of press." Mention me, the current Mrs. Vance, and everyone in our circle sings the same tune. "She was a nobody before him. A Cinderella story. She'd never be stupid enough to leave." No one seems to remember how Julian, looking down from his ivory tower, introduced me at every party when we first got married. "This is my wife, Sophie. She's new to all this, so be nice." Everyone assumed I'd do what I always did: write a check, make the problem disappear, and continue playing the part of the graceful, supportive wife in a picture-perfect high-society marriage. But this time, I just walked into his grandfather's study. "It's been three years," I said, my voice steady. "You have to let me go now." 1 There's an unwritten rule among the vultures at Page Six and TMZ. If you’re having a slow month, just stake out Julian Vance, CEO of Sterling Industries. He’s guaranteed to have a new girl on his arm every few weeks, and he’s not exactly subtle about it. Easy money. A man like Julian having a bit of fun on the side? That's just business as usual. But his wife? She has to maintain appearances, protect the family name. So, you get the dirt on the husband, you take it to the wife, and she pays top dollar to bury it. It’s a neat little ecosystem. This time, though, things played out a little differently. A rookie from some gossip blog, probably shaking in his boots, sent the video to Julian first. Julian, true to form, forwarded it straight to me. I was just getting home to our penthouse overlooking Central Park, the entire glittering expanse of Manhattan laid out below me like a carpet of diamonds. The voice on the phone was a nervous, nasally whine trying its best to sound like a hardened negotiator. "Mrs. Vance, two hundred grand. That's a handbag for you, right? Two hundred grand to make this little embarrassment go away. It's a bargain." He continued, "Think it over. You have my number..." This kid was an amateur. His first mistake was following Julian. His second was knocking on the window of his car. Julian’s cars were notoriously hard to track; he had a garage full of them and swapped them out daily. But for some reason, the last few days, he'd been driving the same Aston Martin. In the video the kid sent, Julian rolls down the window. In the passenger seat is some model-of-the-moment, all legs and lip gloss. Last month, it was a B-list actress from L.A. Julian takes off his sunglasses, revealing that face that could charm a snake or sink a ship. He beckons the photographer closer with one finger. "Newbie?" he asks, his voice a low, lazy drawl. "Don't you know how this works? You take the photos to my wife. You come to me, you get nothing." He paused. "Don't have her number?" He scribbled on a napkin from his glove compartment and tossed it at the kid. Then, he shot a look at the woman next to him and sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. "Get out." She pouted, leaning in. "Julian, honey, I thought we had three days? It's barely been a few hours..." Julian tossed a black card at her and hit the unlock button. "A few hours and you already got us papped. You want me to drag you out? Get lost." I clicked off the video, my face a mask of calm. I sat down at the dining table as Maria, our housekeeper, laid out my dinner course by course. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight. 2 I glanced up at it. A gift from Julian seven years ago, hauled back from a trip to Paris. Now, its pendulum swung with a tired, weary rhythm. I was seventeen when I got my scholarship to Columbia. I met Julian when I was eighteen. Back then, aside from his killer looks, he was completely unassuming. He'd pretend to be lost in the city, asking me for directions, claiming he'd forgotten everything he learned in his economics classes and begging me to tutor him. It took about two weeks before someone pulled me aside and whispered, "You think he's just some hot guy? That's Julian Vance. His family practically owns half of Wall Street. His grandfather is a legend." After that, Julian all but abandoned his own life, driving back and forth between Midtown and the Columbia campus every day. Those years were a blur of fighting and making up, of me constantly letting him in and shutting him out. Then, when I was twenty-five, after navigating a minefield of family objections and social landmines, I married him. Our wedding was the event of the season, splashed across Vogue and Town & Country. One small, trashy blog, trying to make a name for itself, ran a headline that was more clickbait than journalism, and deeply disrespectful. The morning after our wedding, Julian saw it, calmly placed his water glass on the newspaper, and went about his day. I found out later that it was the last issue that blog ever published. Remembering all the little things, I could get lost in the nostalgia and think, Wow, we really were in love, weren't we? But how did we end up like this old clock, so broken down that even its ticking felt weak? The private elevator dinged, its display showing it had arrived on our floor. The doors slid open. Julian stood there, his suit jacket slung over his arm, the harsh overhead light doing nothing to soften the sharp, handsome lines of his face. I looked at him for a second, then went back to my dinner. A minute later, I heard his jacket hit the couch. Then, the scent of expensive cologne and the warmth of his body were right behind me. He leaned over, his hands on the table on either side of me, trapping me in a loose embrace. "Good evening, Mrs. Vance," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "Let's see what today's scandal is worth." My phone was on the table. He picked it up and swiped into my messages. "Two hundred thousand? The paparazzi have smaller appetites than your chef. Anyone would think my stock is falling." I put down my fork, my back ramrod straight, keeping a careful distance between my body and his. I ignored his question and changed the subject. "I'm rejecting Isabella's application for the Head of Marketing position. Her resume isn't up to par." As expected, the mention of her name made him straighten up. The cloying warmth vanished. He sat down across from me, his gaze drifting to the city lights. "Her career isn't your concern." His eyes snapped back to me, a glint in them. "Or is it," he said, tapping his chin, "that you just don't like her?" I met his gaze, searching for something, anything, of the man I used to know. It wasn't there. The world saw a playboy with a revolving door of women. They didn't know it was all a cover for one person: Isabella. He'd sent her to finish a degree in Switzerland two years ago, and now he wanted to parachute her into a top job at Sterling. It wasn't personal; it was practical. Sterling's hiring standards were ironclad. A degree from a top-ten university was the bare minimum. Isabella had a high school diploma and a resume that started with working retail at Bloomingdale's. The Swiss school was a joke. There was no angle to justify it. "This is business," I said, my voice flat. "I'm not letting my personal feelings get involved." He didn't answer. A moment later, a voice message played from his phone, the volume turned up just a little too loud. It was sultry, a practiced purr. "Julian... I think I left my panties in your car... When can I come get them?" The sound echoed slightly in the quiet dining room. Julian looked straight at me as he lifted the phone to his lips. "Wrong number, honey," he said, his voice dripping with false boredom. I stared at his cool, indifferent face, trying desperately to remember what it felt like when he loved me. 3 In the beginning, he used to at least pretend to be sorry. The first time he was caught, it was over a ridiculously expensive gift he'd sent Isabella, which inadvertently took a custom jewelry slot I had reserved. In our small, gossipy world, it was the equivalent of a signed confession. He’d rushed home, throwing his phone, wallet, and credit cards on the table like a peace offering. "She helped me with a small favor, that's all. My assistant picked out the gift. I'm going to fire him." He offered a flimsy explanation, and I chose to believe him. Why wouldn't I? But then, somehow hearing that we'd had a massive fight, Isabella showed up at our building on a rainy day. She stood in the lobby, drenched and pathetic. "Mrs. Vance, please," she'd cried to the doorman, knowing the message would get to me. "There's nothing between Mr. Vance and me! You have to believe us!" It was so transparently manipulative it was almost funny. Anger can blind you. It blinded me to the flicker of pity—or maybe it was something more—in Julian's eyes as he stood at our floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at her. When a man feels sorry for another woman, it's the beginning of a romance for them, and the beginning of the end for you. But all of that was in the past. The worst was over. If I remembered correctly, today was November 27th. The three-year deadline I’d made with his grandfather was just days away. I looked at Julian, about to speak. But his phone rang. I could faintly hear Isabella’s voice on the other end. "The power's out in my apartment... It's so dark, and I'm scared." "Stay put. I'm on my way," Julian said, standing up. He glanced at me. I swallowed the words I was about to say. He didn't wait for them. He just turned and walked out. After he left, I drove to the Vance family estate in Greenwich. It was a sprawling, old-money mansion, a mix of classic European architecture and cold, modern art. His mother, Eleanor, was on a chaise lounge, a maid massaging her shoulders. She opened her eyes, gave me a brief, dismissive look, and closed them again. I didn't bother trying to engage. I went straight upstairs to the study. "Grandfather," I began, choosing my words carefully. "The three years are up. I'd like to leave." Two years ago, when I found out that Julian's business trips were really just flights to and from Switzerland to visit Isabella, and that he was still flying back and forth while I was in the hospital after a miscarriage, my heart finally shattered for good. I went to his grandfather then, at a time when the family business was facing its own turmoil. He asked me to stay for three more years. To provide stability. He promised that if, after three years, Julian hadn't changed, he would personally grant me my freedom. The old man rocked in his leather chair. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "I thought after three years, you'd have gotten used to it. Why do you still want to go?" When I didn't answer, he sighed. "When you married into this family, Sophie, you should have known this was part of the deal. Look at Eleanor. She was wilder than you in her youth. But in the end, she held onto the title of Mrs. Vance, and none of his indiscretions, none of those other women, ever truly threatened her. The son she gave him is still the sole heir." "Do you know why?" he asked. "Why?" "Because I chose her. As long as I back you, as long as I say you are Mrs. Vance, no one can take your place. Those little girls are not a threat." He leaned forward. "Let's not talk about feelings. Let's talk about a transaction. You've been brilliant these past few years. You've managed the household, the charities, the company's image... you've held it all together. It would be costly and time-consuming to train someone new. You leaving is a bad deal for us. You're smart enough to know that." If it was just a transaction, he was right. It was a damn good deal for me. I poured him some tea. "You know," I said softly, "if it were only about the transaction, I wouldn't be here right now." I had considered it. Holding onto the title, the power, the security. Letting him have his fun while I ran the show from behind the scenes. But I didn't marry Julian to become Mrs. Vance. I became Mrs. Vance because I married Julian. I remember pushing him away before, telling him he wasn't free to marry who he wanted, so what was the point of dating me? He'd scowled. "Who says I'm not free? If I want to marry you, I'll find a way. You, on the other hand, look away for one second and you're ready to marry someone else. Do you think I'm useless?" I didn't believe him. What way could he possibly find? He never brought it up again. He just quietly took over more and more of Sterling Industries, cementing his power. After graduation, I got a job at Sterling, starting from the bottom. During the day, I was just another intern. At night, Julian would give me private lessons, and I learned the business at lightning speed. By the time marriage came up again, he was in a position where no one dared to argue. But he still respected his grandfather. So, he came up with a plan to force the old man's hand. "That damn kid," the old man chuckled now, remembering. "Thought my mind was going. He hired some pretty-boy actor from a C-list agency, held his hand, and threatened to get a marriage license in Vegas. Thought he could shock me. I just played along, called his bluff. And now, just a few years later, he's making a mess and you're asking for a divorce." His face grew serious. "I'll say this once. If you leave this family, you will not be welcomed back. Be very sure this is what you want." I lowered my head, the last seven years flashing before my eyes like a movie on fast-forward. "Leaving is something I've been waiting three years for." He waved a tired hand. "Fine. Wrap up your affairs. Someone will be in touch." When I came downstairs, Eleanor was still on the chaise. I walked to the door, then paused and turned back. "I won't be here for your birthday this year, but I wish you good health, always." Then I walked out. The living room was dim, and Eleanor was shrouded in shadows. She watched the silhouette of the woman walking briskly out the door, taking all the light with her. For a moment, she saw a ghost of her younger self, finally escaping. Lena, her aide, leaned in. "Ma'am. It's late. You should rest." The room felt darker. Eleanor looked away. "Let's go." 4 In the car, I remembered the "affairs" I needed to wrap up. I called the gossip blogger and told him to come pick up his check in the morning. I bought the video and every last photo. Another one of Julian's messes, cleaned up by me. A few days later, I got a text from Julian. After Isabella's return, he'd actually been a bit more discreet. Remembering my deal with his grandfather, I told my driver to take a detour and pick Julian up. The address was a private club. The door to the back room was open. A group of his friends were playing poker, and Isabella was among them. She had just won a big hand. The man across from her was fawning. "Bella, you're on fire tonight! Cleaning us all out. Have a heart, you're going to take the shirt off my back!" Isabella smiled, about to reply. Just then, Julian looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "The hell is wrong with you?" he snapped at his friend. "The real Mrs. Vance is standing right there. You blind? No wonder you can't win a hand." The man scrambled to his feet, stammering, "S-Sophie... Mrs. Vance..." Isabella’s face went pale. I knew immediately that Julian had set this up. He did things like this—parading his affairs in front of me, daring me to react, pushing me to leave—but then refusing to actually sign the papers. His logic was twisted but simple. "She's young, she's fun to have around, but you don't marry a girl like that. The Mrs. Vance role is filled. You're enough." I scanned the room, left my driver with instructions to bring Julian home later, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. Before I reached the door, Isabella blocked my path. The eighteen-year-old girl from two years ago was now twenty, poised and polished. She was breathing a little fast. "Mrs. Vance, I'm sorry. I never, ever meant to hurt your family. I tried to leave, to forget him, but I can't." Her voice was a soft whisper. "I can't forget him. I love him so much. But please believe me, I never wanted to break up your home." "It's just... we met at the wrong time. If he had met me back then, I could have been Mrs. Vance..." "I'm sorry, I don't mean it like that. I just... I am sincerely sorry. If there's a next life, I'll do anything to make it up to you." "But in this life," she looked me in the eye, "I can't give him back to you. I'm sorry." I looked her up and down. Two years ago, she was wearing clothes from Forever 21. Now, she was dripping in quiet luxury, from a The Row cashmere sweater to a pair of shoes that cost more than her entire retail salary for three years. There are a lot of Cinderellas in this world. I used to be one. Now, she was auditioning for the part. I didn't say a word. I wouldn't dignify her with a response. You don't try to awaken a conscience in a homewrecker with speeches about morality. If she understood the meaning of the word, she wouldn't be so thrilled to be a rich man's mistress. Her voice followed me as I walked away. "You should divorce him! Let him go!" Back in the room, everyone was exchanging nervous glances. Someone finally worked up the courage to look at Julian's thunderous face. "Jules, man... aren't you going after her? When a woman gets that angry, she starts talking divorce." Julian stared at a picture on his phone—an image of the two-hundred-thousand-dollar check I had written. He was silent for a long time. Then he laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Divorce? Good. Finally some peace and quiet."
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