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Blair, the woman Jax had never gotten over, was back in Texas after her divorce. Everyone was waiting to see me, the Mexican immigrant, get thrown out on the street. After all, I had spent seven years as the unofficial fiancée of Jax Caldwell, heir to one of Texas’s wealthiest oil families. I had even given him a son. But then, out of the blue, he proposed. I hadn't even had a moment to feel the joy before I overheard him on the phone with his family’s attorney. “Why not just wait for Blair?” the lawyer asked. Jax’s voice was pure ice. “Blair needs to maintain her dignity. I’ll marry Elara first. In two years, once she has her permanent green card, we can get a clean divorce. No financial entanglements.” “It’s the perfect solution.” The attorney sounded skeptical. “Will she agree to a sham marriage?” A low, soft laugh came through the phone. “Of course she will.” “For a green card? She doesn’t have a choice.” … I stood frozen outside the study, my blood turning to ice water in my veins. On the phone, the attorney hesitated. “Jax, are you sure about dipping into the portion of the family trust set aside for Blair? Isn't it a bit premature?” A whistle cut through the background—one of Jax’s friends, probably. “Hey, better watch out for Blair’s bankrupt ex-husband coming after you for cash.” Jax’s voice dropped, his tone an absolute warning. “Watch your mouth.” The other end of the line went silent. With a single sentence, he had shielded Blair’s honor. Meanwhile, I—his fiancée, the mother of his son—was nothing more than a commodity to be bought off with a green card. The attorney spoke again, steering the conversation back on track. “Are you certain Elara will accept this… temporary arrangement, and keep quiet for two years?” Jax gave another low laugh. I could picture him perfectly: leaning back in his leather chair, tapping the ash from a cigar like a king surveying his domain. “She will,” he said......

Blair, the woman Jax had never gotten over, was back in Texas after her divorce. Everyone was waiting to see me, the Mexican immigrant, get thrown out on the street. After all, I had spent seven years as the unofficial fiancée of Jax Caldwell, heir to one of Texas’s wealthiest oil families. I had even given him a son. But then, out of the blue, he proposed. I hadn't even had a moment to feel the joy before I overheard him on the phone with his family’s attorney. “Why not just wait for Blair?” the lawyer asked. Jax’s voice was pure ice. “Blair needs to maintain her dignity. I’ll marry Elara first. In two years, once she has her permanent green card, we can get a clean divorce. No financial entanglements.” “It’s the perfect solution.” The attorney sounded skeptical. “Will she agree to a sham marriage?” A low, soft laugh came through the phone. “Of course she will.” “For a green card? She doesn’t have a choice.” … I stood frozen outside the study, my blood turning to ice water in my veins. On the phone, the attorney hesitated. “Jax, are you sure about dipping into the portion of the family trust set aside for Blair? Isn't it a bit premature?” A whistle cut through the background—one of Jax’s friends, probably. “Hey, better watch out for Blair’s bankrupt ex-husband coming after you for cash.” Jax’s voice dropped, his tone an absolute warning. “Watch your mouth.” The other end of the line went silent. With a single sentence, he had shielded Blair’s honor. Meanwhile, I—his fiancée, the mother of his son—was nothing more than a commodity to be bought off with a green card. The attorney spoke again, steering the conversation back on track. “Are you certain Elara will accept this… temporary arrangement, and keep quiet for two years?” Jax gave another low laugh. I could picture him perfectly: leaning back in his leather chair, tapping the ash from a cigar like a king surveying his domain. “She will,” he said......

When I came out of the UCSF emergency operating room, I sent my husband, Ethan, a text. The baby is gone. Two words flashed onto the screen almost instantly. Got it. Staring at the cold, automated reply, I laughed. Three years ago, when the Marin wildfire had spread and trapped me inside a car filling with smoke, I’d sent him dozens of texts begging for help. *I can’t breathe. Help me!* *I sent you the address. Hurry!* *Ethan, I’m begging you…* He had replied to every single one with the same two words. Got it. Only later did I learn it wasn’t some driving mode. It was a Focus mode my husband, the Bay Area elite Ethan Ward, had set up specifically for me, a filter to keep him from being disturbed by my “trivial matters.” Every message I sent him was silenced, archived, and answered with an automatic *Got it*. My desperate pleas for my life were trivial. So was the child I had just lost. His time, his concern—it all went to a girl named Lena, the daughter of his deceased friend. Right now, he was busy preparing for the “Marin Wildfire Relief Charity Gala.” On the program, the names of the guests of honor were listed as Ethan Ward & Lena Price. And I, his lawful wife, hadn’t even been told. On my phone was the gala invitation he’d forwarded, a curt reminder for me to attend. I opened it and replied. Got it. Today was the anniversary of the day I had barely escaped that wildfire. And it was the day I decided to bury him, and our marriage, for good. … I returned alone to our home in Marin County. The house felt as hollow as I did, so empty the silence tightened my chest. Out of habit, I reached for my phone, about to ask Ethan why he still wasn’t home at three in the morning. But after Face ID unlocked the screen, that lifeless wall of *Got it* brought me back to reality. I scoffed at myself. What a pathetic reflex. Nearly three years, and I still hadn’t broken my worst habit: expe......

When I came out of the UCSF emergency operating room, I sent my husband, Ethan, a text. The baby is gone. Two words flashed onto the screen almost instantly. Got it. Staring at the cold, automated reply, I laughed. Three years ago, when the Marin wildfire had spread and trapped me inside a car filling with smoke, I’d sent him dozens of texts begging for help. *I can’t breathe. Help me!* *I sent you the address. Hurry!* *Ethan, I’m begging you…* He had replied to every single one with the same two words. Got it. Only later did I learn it wasn’t some driving mode. It was a Focus mode my husband, the Bay Area elite Ethan Ward, had set up specifically for me, a filter to keep him from being disturbed by my “trivial matters.” Every message I sent him was silenced, archived, and answered with an automatic *Got it*. My desperate pleas for my life were trivial. So was the child I had just lost. His time, his concern—it all went to a girl named Lena, the daughter of his deceased friend. Right now, he was busy preparing for the “Marin Wildfire Relief Charity Gala.” On the program, the names of the guests of honor were listed as Ethan Ward & Lena Price. And I, his lawful wife, hadn’t even been told. On my phone was the gala invitation he’d forwarded, a curt reminder for me to attend. I opened it and replied. Got it. Today was the anniversary of the day I had barely escaped that wildfire. And it was the day I decided to bury him, and our marriage, for good. … I returned alone to our home in Marin County. The house felt as hollow as I did, so empty the silence tightened my chest. Out of habit, I reached for my phone, about to ask Ethan why he still wasn’t home at three in the morning. But after Face ID unlocked the screen, that lifeless wall of *Got it* brought me back to reality. I scoffed at myself. What a pathetic reflex. Nearly three years, and I still hadn’t broken my worst habit: expe......

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