He left me down there for eleven days. He doesn't know I came back as his boss's daughter. I signed nothing. That was the point. Every order that made my husband the king of Gray Harbor went out sealed with a black magpie and no name on it — his routes, his debts, his enemies, written in a hand he never once bothered to look at. He believed he built it himself. He believed the woman who slept beside him was furniture. Then Celine Marchetti walked into his office with my handwriting in her fist. He put me in the cellar that Friday. He left me two buckets of water. He thought I would only last three days. But he never asked a second question in his life — so nobody told him the water was gone, nobody told him the door was still locked on the eleventh day, and he never walked back down the stairs to look. I died in there. For something I never did. I woke up in a hospital bed I'd been lying in for five years, in the body of Vivienne Sinclair — only daughter of the man who owns the water in nine cities. Everyone in that house thinks I'm just a body in a bed. They're wrong. I know every account, every route, every debt in this city, because I'm the one who wrote them. Adrian is still looking for a grave to kneel at. There isn't one. He will never find out it was me. And that is the only thing I can't forgive.