Kay Brock Orzechowski

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

Three years after she remarried Rhys Romano, Camille Blake attended a low-key alumni fundraiser and overheard a secret she was never meant to hear. Isla Sutton, her words slurring slightly from champagne, was holding court during a game of truth or dare. Someone had asked her for the most thrilling thing she’d ever done. She swirled the bubbles in her glass, a smirk playing on her lips. “Sleeping with Rhys Romano behind his wife’s back, obviously.” “The best part is, his wife actually thinks we’re over.” “I gave him a son. I live in a condo he owns, I drive his Porsche, and I use his Centurion card. Even his household staff answers to me.” When she finished, the room fell silent. Every eye in the place turned to Camille, waiting for the explosion. Because she was Rhys’s wife. ... But Camille didn’t cry. She didn’t make a scene. When a waiter passed by to refill her glass, she simply murmured, “Thank you.” After the party, the changes in her were subtle at first, but soon, people started to notice. First, her Instagram. Every post featuring Rhys vanished. When Rhys came home late, the living room lamp she always left on for him was dark. A short time later, Camille canceled her IVF appointments at the fertility clinic. Five years ago, she and Rhys had been in a horrific car accident. When the impact came, she had thrown herself over him without thinking. Rhys walked away with minor injuries. Camille, however, was in a coma for three days. The doctors later told her that her chances of conceiving naturally were almost zero. For the heir the Romano family craved,and for the family she had once desperately wanted,she had pushed herself for years. She went to the clinic every month and endured countless injections. She held on to endless, heart-breaking hope that one day, she might have their child. After the party, she stopped managing the Romano family’s social calendar. She stopped attending S......

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......

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......