Chapter 1After the wedding, my husband vanished for three months to chase his first love.
I became the joke of high society.
"Poor thing. Even after everything she did to land Preston, he'll never love her."
But so what?
I looked at Preston—
at those eyes that reminded me so much of another man's—
and thought: I don't love him either.
But later, when everything was finally over, he grabbed me tight and cried:
"Was that all I was? A revenge tool you used and threw away?!"
"Please, love me..."
...
I was lying in a hospital bed, briefing my assistant on an upcoming board meeting, when photos of Preston Caldwell and Summer Hayes at the airport started climbing the trending charts.
My assistant, Mia, shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
"Ms. Rivers, about Preston—"
I paused, then reached for my phone.
The headline filled the screen:
[Caldwell Industries CEO Spotted with Actress Summer Hayes at Airport!]
Below it, a photo. Summer walking ahead, her head angled back just enough to catch Preston's eye. The look she gave him—soft, lingering.
The comments rolled in fast:
[omg the way she looks at him]
[billionaire bodyguard vibes I'm obsessed]
I took it in. Swiped it away. "Let's go. Meeting starts in twenty."
Mia hesitated. "Maybe you should take more time. I can have Preston's team handle this—get it taken down."
I kept my voice steady. "Don't bother."
If Preston wanted those photos gone, they'd already be gone. He had that kind of pull.
Which meant he either didn't mind—or he'd let it happen on purpose.
First love. It really does hit different.
I've always known I pushed this marriage into being.
I was seventeen the first time I saw Preston Caldwell. Spent the next four years chasing him.
Eventually, my grandfather stepped in. Called in an old debt—he'd once saved Preston's grandfather's life—and got Preston to agree to marry me.
The day before our engagement, Preston came by. Asked me one question:
"You sure about this?"
I met his gaze—those cool, unreadable eyes—and nodded.
He said, "Alright then."
And that was it. I became Mrs. Caldwell.
But on our wedding night, his phone rang. He left for Europe an hour later.
That's when I figured it out.
Preston already had someone. Someone who actually mattered.
Summer Hayes. New face in Hollywood. The kind everyone roots for.
He flew out that night to see her.
In the three years since, he's been "growing the international division." We've crossed paths maybe five times total.
Even when he's stateside, he doesn't reach out. I only get his schedule through his assistant.
Between us, there's the bare minimum. The obligations. Nothing more.
Just like half the marriages in our circle—transactional, tidy, distant.
But now...
I think this arrangement is running out of time.
Chapter 2
On the drive back to the office, I closed my eyes, trying to work through the details of the Whitmore deal. My thoughts were cut short by a phone call.
I frowned at the name on the screen. Tapped to answer.
"I'm back." Preston's voice, flat as ever.
I could picture it—him in the backseat of a car, expression blank, phone pressed to his ear.
I gave a brief hum in response.
"Grandfather wants us at Pebble Beach tonight. Dinner."
Two weeks away. Not a word. Of course this was why he was calling.
"Can't. I have plans."
Silence on the other end. Then a click. He'd hung up.
I let out a short breath and tossed the phone aside.
It wasn't spite. Tonight was Eleanor Whitmore's eightieth birthday dinner.
Her late husband, Harrison Whitmore, had been one of the most celebrated painters on the West Coast. Back when I still thought I might pursue art instead of finance, he'd taken me under his wing.
I was nobody then—just a foster kid with some talent and a secondhand set of brushes.
Eleanor had been kind to me. More than kind. If it weren't for her, my birth parents might never have tracked me down.
Between sitting through a strained dinner at the Caldwell estate and honoring someone who'd actually shown up for me? The choice was obvious.
...
I handed over the gift I'd prepared—a rare Whitmore piece I'd won at auction the week before, along with a small landscape I'd painted years ago.
Eleanor ran her fingers over the canvas, her face softening. She'd never quite forgiven me for giving up painting.
"Evelyn, sweetheart. You were barely fourteen when one of your pieces sold for six figures."
"Harrison used to say you had something most people spend their whole lives chasing."
I lowered my gaze, pressed my lips together. Said nothing.
She sighed.
"Well. You came back to the Hart family. You were always going to end up running the business. Finance isn't a bad path." Her voice dropped. "Better than letting someone with no real claim walk off with everything your parents built."
"It's just that Caldwell boy—"
She stopped herself. Patted my hand instead.
I managed a small smile.
Suddenly, the room stirred. Heads turned.
A figure approached and stopped beside me.
"Mrs. Whitmore. Many happy returns."
My grip on the glass went white-knuckled before I could stop it.
Eleanor's health had been declining. She'd only come out to greet guests briefly before heading back upstairs to rest.
"Ms. Hart." The man beside me lifted his glass slightly, mouth curving at the edges.
I steadied myself quickly. "Dominic. I heard you weren't doing well. Glad to see you're up and about."
Dominic Shaw gave a light shake of his head. "That's exactly why I make myself get out. Otherwise it gets unbearably dull."
His gaze drifted across the room.
"Preston didn't come tonight? I was hoping to catch up."
Another wave of murmurs swept through the crowd.
Someone else was heading our way.
Then a warm hand settled at my waist. "Dominic. Why don't we catch up in a bit?"
Preston.
Nearly every head in the room turned toward us.
Everyone in Seattle's old-money circles knew the history.
The Caldwells and the Shaws—two of the city's most powerful families. And the resentment between them ran bone-deep.
Preston's parents had died in a car accident on Highway 101. The Shaws had been involved—everyone knew it, even if nothing was ever proven.
Preston was sixteen at the time.
But Caldwell Industries didn't collapse because of it. Under Preston's control, it only expanded.
The Shaws, on the other hand, had been in slow decline. Eleven years ago, Dominic Shaw was diagnosed with end-stage kidney failure.
The family's connections got him moved to the top of the transplant list within weeks.
The surgery saved his life, but the recovery had been brutal. He'd never fully bounced back.
And Shaw Holdings had been hemorrhaging value ever since.
I kept my expression neutral, standing beside Preston as the two of them traded barbs disguised as pleasantries.
It didn't take long for Dominic to retreat.
By the time he walked away, his smile had gone tight at the edges.
I watched him go, my face calm. Then a sharp pressure at my waist made me turn.
Preston was looking at me, jaw set. Displeased.
"Stay away from Dominic Shaw."
I lifted my glass, took a slow sip. The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.
Stay away?
I couldn't do that.
Not when everything I'd spent the last ten years building—
every calculated risk, every compromise—
had been for him.
Chapter 3
"Relax. I'm not dragging Caldwell Industries into this. And you don't get a say in what Hart Holdings does." My tone stayed level.
Preston went still. Those cold eyes of his darkened.
He hadn't expected that. Not from someone who used to bend to whatever he wanted.
Before he could respond, I turned and walked away.
...
In the restroom, I'd just reapplied my lipstick when I heard my name drift through the stall door.
"Can you believe Dominic Shaw actually showed up tonight..."
"The real surprise is Preston being here. Think he came for Evelyn?"
"Oh, please." The voice turned razor-sharp. "If the Caldwells didn't owe her family that favor, she never would've gotten within ten feet of that family. And now she's riding their coattails to prop up Hart Holdings."
The last part came out louder.
"She grew up bouncing between foster homes. What makes her think she belongs in our world?"
I clicked my lipstick shut and leaned back against the sink, arms crossed.
When the two of them stepped out and saw me, their faces drained.
My heels struck the tile in slow, deliberate beats as I moved toward them.
"You're right. I don't belong."
I let the corner of my mouth lift.
"But putting both your families out of business? I could do that before lunch."
The Parker girl's father had sent over a partnership pitch just yesterday. Still sitting on my desk, unsigned.
As for the Grants? Even less worth my time.
Everyone said Hart Holdings would eclipse Shaw Holdings as one of Seattle's power players within the decade.
The Parkers and Grants were small fry.
Both women looked like they might be sick.
I walked out, a faint smile still tugging at my lips.
Power doesn't apologize.
Nathan. Can you see this?
If I'd had this kind of reach back then, maybe you'd still be here.
...
I'd given my gift. Said my goodbyes. No reason to linger—especially not after running into someone I'd been hoping to avoid.
I made my excuses to the Whitmores and headed out.
Then Preston's car slid up in front of me.
His assistant stepped out and opened the rear door.
Preston sat inside, legs crossed, black suit perfectly pressed. His expression gave nothing away as he looked at me.
"Get in."
I stopped.
"We need to talk." His jaw tightened. "Get in."
I considered it. Then waved off my driver and Mia, signaling them to leave without me.
As I turned toward Preston's car, Mia jogged back over.
She pressed a small bag into my hand, voice dropping.
"Ms. Hart—please eat something. You skipped dinner. I don't want you fainting again."
...
The car was silent.
Preston's voice came out quiet. Almost careful. "Are you sick?"
I set the bag of hard candies aside. Kept my tone steady. "Low blood sugar. Nothing dramatic. You said you wanted to talk. So talk."
Preston looked at me for a long moment. Then told the driver to take us somewhere we could eat.
I should probably give him credit for actually listening to Mia.
When we got to the restaurant, Preston ordered me a dessert without asking.
The server set a mango mousse down in front of me.
I froze.
"There's a development project on the east end. People are saying Caldwell Industries is going to bid."
Preston leaned back, his voice flat.
The project had been generating buzz for weeks—major infrastructure, city-backed, with direct state oversight.
That kind of visibility meant competition wasn't just local. Companies from across the country were circling.
A project that size? In Seattle, only two players had the capital and clout to compete: the Caldwells and the Shaws.
One misstep could sink half your company.
Preston had looked into it. What he'd found didn't sit right. Red flags. Enough to make him back off entirely.
He'd had no intention of touching it.
But over the past week, even his partners had been asking if Caldwell Industries was throwing its hat in the ring.
"I started that rumor." I nodded.
Preston's eyes sharpened. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, jaw tightening.
"You're targeting Shaw Holdings. Dominic's not going to buy it. He's too careful."
"He will." I said.
Not immediately. But if someone fed him the right intel—someone he thought he could trust?
Dominic Shaw had always been arrogant. Believed he was three steps ahead of everyone.
Five years ago, he'd planted someone inside Hart Holdings. Someone who'd stayed dormant all this time.
If that person suddenly surfaced with what looked like Caldwell Industries' bid strategy—framed as leaked intel?
Preston had always been his biggest threat.
Dominic wouldn't be able to resist.
"Hart Holdings doesn't need this. You've grown fast enough without taking a risk like this."
"I'm not doing it for the company."
The words came out measured. I looked up, held his gaze.
Preston went still. Something flickered across his face before it closed off completely.
"Then it's even less worth it."
He'd handle the Shaws himself. In time.
Within five years, he'd settle every debt—past and present—that they owed the Caldwells.
No reason to pull Hart Holdings into it.
I didn't answer. The air between us went cold and tight.
Truth was, I wasn't stopping. And Preston didn't push when it came to other people's choices.
He'd only brought it up because I'd used Caldwell Industries as cover.
Before we left, Preston's eyes dropped to the untouched dessert.
His tone stayed flat. "You don't like it?"
I glanced at the mango mousse, then back at him.
"We've been married five years, Preston. You still don't know I'm allergic to mango."
