The envelope sits on the marble kitchen island like a death sentence. I don't need to open it to know what's inside. Three years of cold shoulders, separate bedrooms, and carefully orchestrated public appearances have led to this moment. The contract is up. Our marriage—if you can even call it that—is officially over. "You're up early." Damien's voice cuts through the silence of our penthouse. Our soon-to-be former penthouse. I watch his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, not bothering to turn around. Even at six in the morning, he's immaculate in his tailored suit, dark hair perfectly styled, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Three years, and my heart still skips when I see him. I hate myself for it. "Couldn't sleep," I say, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug. The ceramic is warm, but I feel cold everywhere. He moves closer, and I catch the scent of his cologne—the expensive one I gave him for our first anniversary. The anniversary he forgot because he was closing a deal in Singapore. "Aria, we should talk." "Should we?" I finally turn to face him. "We haven't really talked in three years. Why start now?" Something flickers in his steel-gray eyes. Regret? No, that's wishful thinking. Damien Cross doesn't do regret. He does billion-dollar acquisitions and hostile takeovers. He does whatever it takes to expand Cross Technologies into every corner of the tech world. He doesn't do love. "Our arrangement ends today," he says, confirming what I already know. "I wanted to thank you. You held up your end of the bargain admirably." A bitter laugh escapes my throat. "How romantic." "You knew what this was from the beginning." His tone is matter-of-fact, businesslike. "I needed a wife to satisfy the board's concerns about my image. You needed financial stability for your art career. We both got what we wanted." Did we? I want to ask. Because I'm not sure anymore. Somewhere between the charity galas and the empty dinner tables, between the photos for magazines and the nights I cried myself to sleep, I forgot what I wanted. No—that's a lie. I know exactly when I forgot. It was the night I realized I'd fallen in love with my husband, and he was in Morgan's apartment until three in the morning. Morgan. Beautiful, brilliant Morgan Chen, his childhood friend and the CFO of Cross Technologies. The woman he actually smiles at. The woman whose calls he always takes, even during our anniversary dinner. "I agreed to this marriage contract for the inheritance clause," Damien continues, and now I hear it—the slight softness in his voice when he mentions the real reason. "My grandfather's will required me to be married to access the company shares. You helped me secure my position as CEO." "And now you don't need me anymore." I set down my coffee cup before he can see my hands shaking. "The terms were always clear, Aria." "Crystal clear." I move toward the bedroom—the one I've slept in alone for three years. "I'll be out by noon." "You don't have to rush—" "Yes, I do." I pause in the doorway, forcing myself to look at him one last time. God, he's beautiful. And completely unavailable, in every way that matters. "Morgan is the only person who's ever mattered to you. We both know it. So let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is—a business transaction that's reached its conclusion." His jaw tightens. "Morgan and I are—" "I don't want to know." I cut him off, my voice breaking despite my best efforts. "Just... let me leave with whatever dignity I have left." I close the door before he can respond, sliding down against it as silent tears stream down my face. Three years of loving someone who never loved me back. Three years of being Mrs. Damien Cross in name only. But that ends today. I pull out my phone and dial the only number I have left. "Sophie? It's me. I need a place to crash." My best friend's voice is instantly alert despite the early hour. "He signed the papers?" "Not yet. But it's over." I wipe my eyes. "I'm done being invisible." "Come to the studio. I have news that might cheer you up." "Nothing could possibly—" "Your mentor died, Aria. Victor Ashford. And apparently, you're in his will."