For six years I thought I married a man who loved me. Turns out I just married a really good liar. I found out the way most wives find out. By accident. A file I wasn’t supposed to see. Records that shouldn’t exist. A signature dated years before he ever brought up starting a family. I still don’t know what all of it means. I just know it was never about love. So I left. I thought that was the hard part. I was wrong. Where I come from, rich people don’t just get divorced and move on. They put you up for auction. Whoever bids the highest gets to marry you next, like you’re a car somebody’s trading in. My husband showed up ready to buy me back like none of it happened. Then his enemy outbid him. Lucien Cross says he’s not doing this because he wants a wife. He won’t tell me what he actually wants. I don’t know if I trust him. I don’t know if he trusts himself. The more I dig into my own family, the less this feels like it was ever about an affair, or a baby, or even a marriage. It feels like it was always about me. What I don’t know about where I came from. What somebody has been waiting for me to find out. And for the first time in six years, I’m the one deciding what happens next.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​