The air in the lavish bedroom was thick with a heavy, cloying silence. Calista Everhart lay still, the sheets a tangle around her. Three years. Three years since a coerced marriage, a chillingly precise agreement. Last night, the same man who swore he’d be home early today, the very same man she’d cooked a hopeful, now cold, dinner for, had been seen carrying a dancer named Lily Scott from a public spectacle.

Her hands, still bearing the faint red marks from her afternoon’s efforts in the kitchen, trembled slightly as she rose. The opulent Everglade Manor, once a symbol of a false promise, now felt like a gilded cage. She walked to the trash can, the scent of her uneaten meal a bitter reproach, and silently scraped the contents into the bin. There was no emotion on her face, just a quiet, profound resignation.

Upstairs, the luggage she’d packed on her wedding day sat waiting. It was time. Three months remained on the agreement, but Lily’s premature return had accelerated the inevitable. With a heavy sigh that was almost imperceptible, Calista dialed a familiar number. Lucian’s voice, impatient and distant, answered. “What?”