It was well past midnight. The Manhattan penthouse where we lived was shrouded in the kind of silence that only comes with money and elevation. Light still spilled from beneath Nathaniel's study door. He was always a night owl, but it was unusual for him to work this late even by his standards. "...Maybe I forgot to give him those contracts." I made that flimsy excuse to myself as I padded quietly down the marble hallway. My fingertips hesitated at the mahogany door handle. The words I'd been rehearsing all day died in my throat. And then— Through the barely cracked door, I glimpsed something I was never meant to see. In Nathaniel's hands was a worn photograph. The woman in it wasn't me, of course. A radiant girl with laughter still dancing in her eyes and youth painting her cheeks pink. He traced the photo with reverent fingers. Her face, her smile, the curve of her neck. Like he was cradling something infinitely precious and irreplaceably fragile. "...You're still here with me, aren't you?" That voice—raw, broken, achingly tender—was nothing like the man I knew. Not cold, not calculating. It was the sound of a heart that had never stopped bleeding. Something twisted painfully in my chest. This man carries someone else in his soul. Someone precious, someone who still breathes in memories I'll never be part of. I pressed my back against the cool wall and closed my eyes. This marriage is just business. I knew that from day one. So why does watching him love someone else feel like drowning? Once again, I find myself pulled into the gravity of my enigmatic husband's hidden depths, jealousy and longing warring in my chest like old enemies.