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The news that my fiancé, Liam, was engaged to a socialite broke while I was standing in a crowded ballroom, accepting an award on his behalf. I calmly took a screenshot of the announcement, circled their smiling faces, and posted it to my Instagram story. My caption: “Congratulations to our CEO on such a perfect match. A true power couple.” An hour earlier, I’d just about killed myself to win him that landmark award, my heart soaring as I waited for him to finally make good on his promise to marry me. For ten years, I’d paved the way for his family’s business with my own two hands, all because he’d once whispered, “The moment I inherit the trust, I’ll marry you.” In the end, he inherited that trust by marrying someone else. When he finally called, his voice was laced with the indignation of the wronged party. “Did you have to make this so ugly? I told you, this is just a family arrangement!” Listening to his shameless excuses, I spoke each word with chilling clarity. “Liam, as of today, your company has lost its soul.” … On the other end of the line, Liam Charleston’s voice—a voice that usually flowed like warm bourbon—was sharp and shrill with anger. “Chloe, did you have to make this so ugly? I told you, it’s just a family arrangement, a business decision! Don’t you understand that?” “What do you mean, the company lost its soul? Are you threatening me? Don’t you forget your place!” I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, a bitter smile twisting my lips. My place. For the last decade, marrying Liam and becoming a Charleston had been the blueprint for my entire life. I had a private Pinterest board titled “Charleston Forever,” filled with thousands of pins for a Southern estate wedding: oak-lined avenues draped in Spanish moss, tables set with gardenias and magnolias, even my own sketches for the abandoned chapel I planned to restore for our ceremony. I had studied the stitch-work of antique lace gow......

My husband brought his mistress and their illegitimate son into our home. So I smiled, raised my glass, and offered them a toast. “Congratulations, Graham.” I turned to the other woman. “And to you, Miss Piper. You’ve finally earned the Lockwood heir a seat at the main table.” The room went dead silent. Graham blanched. He rushed to my side, hissing in my ear, “Ava, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nothing was wrong with me. I had simply seen the future—my future—while I lay unconscious after a fall from my horse. In my last life, I had screamed. I had cried. I had thrown this luncheon into chaos. And in the end, he had seized my family’s foundation, had my best friend crippled for testifying on my behalf, and staged my death as an accident, burning me alive. Now, I was awake. When I looked at his mistress weeping so delicately, all I felt was disgust. The sight of him shielding that mother and child, a clumsy, brutish tableau, made me want to laugh. I had my photographer capture it all. Every frame was irrefutable evidence, enough to trigger the moral breach clause in our prenuptial agreement. Proof that he had dug his own grave. The game was just beginning. I turned and left, dialing a number as I walked. “Bennett, it’s me. Ava Hart.” “I’ve decided to replace the co-chair of my foundation. Do you have time to talk?” ... I had barely hung up when my phone lit up again with a text. [Anytime. I’ll meet you outside the courthouse.] The sender was Bennett Shaw. I put my phone away and drove back to the Virginia estate where Graham and I had lived for five years. Our wedding photo still hung on the living room wall. He looked brilliant and ambitious; I was smiling as if I owned the world. Our marriage had once been the darling of Virginia society—the Hart family fortune wed to Lockwood family ambition. I had thought it was love. Now, it looked more like a transaction. If it h......

My husband brought his mistress and their illegitimate son into our home. So I smiled, raised my glass, and offered them a toast. “Congratulations, Graham.” I turned to the other woman. “And to you, Miss Piper. You’ve finally earned the Lockwood heir a seat at the main table.” The room went dead silent. Graham blanched. He rushed to my side, hissing in my ear, “Ava, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nothing was wrong with me. I had simply seen the future—my future—while I lay unconscious after a fall from my horse. In my last life, I had screamed. I had cried. I had thrown this luncheon into chaos. And in the end, he had seized my family’s foundation, had my best friend crippled for testifying on my behalf, and staged my death as an accident, burning me alive. Now, I was awake. When I looked at his mistress weeping so delicately, all I felt was disgust. The sight of him shielding that mother and child, a clumsy, brutish tableau, made me want to laugh. I had my photographer capture it all. Every frame was irrefutable evidence, enough to trigger the moral breach clause in our prenuptial agreement. Proof that he had dug his own grave. The game was just beginning. I turned and left, dialing a number as I walked. “Bennett, it’s me. Ava Hart.” “I’ve decided to replace the co-chair of my foundation. Do you have time to talk?” ... I had barely hung up when my phone lit up again with a text. [Anytime. I’ll meet you outside the courthouse.] The sender was Bennett Shaw. I put my phone away and drove back to the Virginia estate where Graham and I had lived for five years. Our wedding photo still hung on the living room wall. He looked brilliant and ambitious; I was smiling as if I owned the world. Our marriage had once been the darling of Virginia society—the Hart family fortune wed to Lockwood family ambition. I had thought it was love. Now, it looked more like a transaction. If it h......

My husband brought his mistress and their illegitimate son into our home. So I smiled, raised my glass, and offered them a toast. “Congratulations, Graham.” I turned to the other woman. “And to you, Miss Piper. You’ve finally earned the Lockwood heir a seat at the main table.” The room went dead silent. Graham blanched. He rushed to my side, hissing in my ear, “Ava, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Nothing was wrong with me. I had simply seen the future—my future—while I lay unconscious after a fall from my horse. In my last life, I had screamed. I had cried. I had thrown this luncheon into chaos. And in the end, he had seized my family’s foundation, had my best friend crippled for testifying on my behalf, and staged my death as an accident, burning me alive. Now, I was awake. When I looked at his mistress weeping so delicately, all I felt was disgust. The sight of him shielding that mother and child, a clumsy, brutish tableau, made me want to laugh. I had my photographer capture it all. Every frame was irrefutable evidence, enough to trigger the moral breach clause in our prenuptial agreement. Proof that he had dug his own grave. The game was just beginning. I turned and left, dialing a number as I walked. “Bennett, it’s me. Ava Hart.” “I’ve decided to replace the co-chair of my foundation. Do you have time to talk?” ... I had barely hung up when my phone lit up again with a text. [Anytime. I’ll meet you outside the courthouse.] The sender was Bennett Shaw. I put my phone away and drove back to the Virginia estate where Graham and I had lived for five years. Our wedding photo still hung on the living room wall. He looked brilliant and ambitious; I was smiling as if I owned the world. Our marriage had once been the darling of Virginia society—the Hart family fortune wed to Lockwood family ambition. I had thought it was love. Now, it looked more like a transaction. If it h......

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