Marsh Spencer Samantha

I was seven months pregnant when my husband, Graham, handed me a divorce agreement. He needed to marry another woman. A poor widow, he’d said, left behind by his best friend. He held me, his touch gentle, and promised it was only a three-month “technical arrangement.” He said he loved me. He said he had to honor his friend’s dying wish. He said that once he legally adopted the woman’s child and secured the baby’s place in the family trust, we would remarry immediately. He played the part so well. If only I hadn’t gone to his law firm. If only I hadn’t overheard him telling his lawyer— “Once Vivian gives birth to the Whitmore heir, she’ll have a reason to stay. She won’t leave me.” So that was his love. A calculation. His responsibility was just an excuse. And our child was the final chain he planned to use to bind me to him. I looked into his devoted eyes, smiled as I signed the papers, and said, “You’re so good to me.” He didn’t know that piece of paper would cost him his only heir. And he certainly didn’t know that on a stormy Thanksgiving night, when he abandoned me in premature labor for a manipulative woman and her child, he was dooming himself to a lifetime of regret, clutching nothing but a cold urn of ashes. … I was seven months pregnant when my husband, Graham Whitmore, brought his late friend’s widow, Sloane Mercer, and her wailing infant into our Beacon Hill home. I endured Sloane’s presence everywhere, the air of a second mistress settling into every room. I endured the fragile, dependent way she looked at Graham. I told myself he was only acting out of guilt and responsibility. The woman he loved was me. Until I found a receipt from a high-end maternity boutique in the pocket of his bespoke suit. Not a single item on it was for our child. Clutching that thin slip of paper, I drove to his lawyer’s office. I just wanted an explanation. But now I stood outside the heavy oak door of ......

Grant and I were secretly married for six years. At his family foundation’s gala, he slipped off his wedding ring to lead the opening dance with Meredith, his pregnant ex-fiancée. He told the press she was the one who had always understood his dreams. Every newspaper in Boston celebrated them finding their way back to each other. When he came home, he warned me, “Don’t make a scene.” I didn’t. On our wedding anniversary, I left a gift for him in his study. A velvet box, the kind meant for a celebratory gift. Inside were the divorce petition I’d already signed, the property settlement agreement, and the eight-week ultrasound of our baby, tucked beside an appointment confirmation for a termination procedure. He never even glanced at it. He was already out the door, rushing to comfort his ex, who had supposedly “had a nightmare.” He didn’t know he’d just thrown away his last chance. ... I looked at him, at the bare finger where his wedding ring should have been. Grant rubbed the pale indentation, an unconscious gesture, as if soothing a phantom limb. “The gala was crowded. My grandmother was there,” he explained, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. “It would have caused unnecessary complications.” The excuse was so lazy it was almost laughable. In the past, I would have pushed. I would have demanded to know where he’d put the ring, made him fish it out of his suit pocket, and watched him slide it back on his finger. This was, after all, the man I had once fought so hard for. Over the years, I’d grown adept at making excuses for him. Just like six months ago, when Meredith returned to Boston after her own divorce. He’d left me burning with a fever to drive halfway across the state to pick her up from the airport. When he got back, he ignored my protests and insisted on hiring her as a consultant for the family foundation. Back then, I’d chalked it up to his sense of responsibility, to the pul......

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......

“Fallon, your twenty-second birthday is coming up.” Isabella Marino’s voice was bright over the phone. “Have you decided which of your five fiancés you’re going to choose?” Fallon stood by the window, her fingertips grazing the sill. “I have,” she said. Isabella laughed. “I knew it. You've chased after Matteo your whole life. It's him, right?” “No,” Fallon said. “Not Matteo.” The line went quiet. “Then Nico? Gianni? Alessio?” Isabella asked. “They all like you." “Not them, either.” Isabella drew in a sharp breath. “That only leaves Eamon. ‘ “But you two have never gotten along. Tell me you’re not picking him.” “I am.” Fallon cut in. “Mom, I’m marrying Eamon Burke.” “What?” Isabella’s voice shot up. “Fallon, you and Eamon have been at each other's throats since you were kids.” “At five, you shoved him into the country club pool.” “At ten, you soaked his birthday cake in Tabasco.” “At fifteen, you tossed his limited-edition Air Jordans straight into the Central Park fountain—” Fallon let her mother rattle off the old crimes. A small smile tugged at her lips. “Last year you said you never wanted to see his face again,” Isabella went on. “Then he left for Switzerland the next week. So why him? Why now?” Fallon lowered her eyes. Because this wasn’t her first life. And in that life, she found out the truth too late. Out of all five men, only Eamon Burke had ever really loved her. But she didn’t know it before. … In her last life, she had stood in this very spot, brimming with excitement as she told her mother she was going to marry Matteo Moretti. She’d had no idea the eldest son of the Moretti family would fake his own death just to run away with another woman. She had been trapped in that lie for twenty years. The Marino family was old-money New York. Her mother, Isabella, had been close friends for years with the matriarchs of the Moretti, Bellini, Romano, Ferraro, and ......

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......

“Fallon, your twenty-second birthday is coming up.” Isabella Marino’s voice was bright over the phone. “Have you decided which of your five fiancés you’re going to choose?” Fallon stood by the window, her fingertips grazing the sill. “I have,” she said. Isabella laughed. “I knew it. You've chased after Matteo your whole life. It's him, right?” “No,” Fallon said. “Not Matteo.” The line went quiet. “Then Nico? Gianni? Alessio?” Isabella asked. “They all like you." “Not them, either.” Isabella drew in a sharp breath. “That only leaves Eamon. ‘ “But you two have never gotten along. Tell me you’re not picking him.” “I am.” Fallon cut in. “Mom, I’m marrying Eamon Burke.” “What?” Isabella’s voice shot up. “Fallon, you and Eamon have been at each other's throats since you were kids.” “At five, you shoved him into the country club pool.” “At ten, you soaked his birthday cake in Tabasco.” “At fifteen, you tossed his limited-edition Air Jordans straight into the Central Park fountain—” Fallon let her mother rattle off the old crimes. A small smile tugged at her lips. “Last year you said you never wanted to see his face again,” Isabella went on. “Then he left for Switzerland the next week. So why him? Why now?” Fallon lowered her eyes. Because this wasn’t her first life. And in that life, she found out the truth too late. Out of all five men, only Eamon Burke had ever really loved her. But she didn’t know it before. … In her last life, she had stood in this very spot, brimming with excitement as she told her mother she was going to marry Matteo Moretti. She’d had no idea the eldest son of the Moretti family would fake his own death just to run away with another woman. She had been trapped in that lie for twenty years. The Marino family was old-money New York. Her mother, Isabella, had been close friends for years with the matriarchs of the Moretti, Bellini, Romano, Ferraro, and ......

“Fallon, your twenty-second birthday is coming up.” Isabella Marino’s voice was bright over the phone. “Have you decided which of your five fiancés you’re going to choose?” Fallon stood by the window, her fingertips grazing the sill. “I have,” she said. Isabella laughed. “I knew it. You've chased after Matteo your whole life. It's him, right?” “No,” Fallon said. “Not Matteo.” The line went quiet. “Then Nico? Gianni? Alessio?” Isabella asked. “They all like you." “Not them, either.” Isabella drew in a sharp breath. “That only leaves Eamon. ‘ “But you two have never gotten along. Tell me you’re not picking him.” “I am.” Fallon cut in. “Mom, I’m marrying Eamon Burke.” “What?” Isabella’s voice shot up. “Fallon, you and Eamon have been at each other's throats since you were kids.” “At five, you shoved him into the country club pool.” “At ten, you soaked his birthday cake in Tabasco.” “At fifteen, you tossed his limited-edition Air Jordans straight into the Central Park fountain—” Fallon let her mother rattle off the old crimes. A small smile tugged at her lips. “Last year you said you never wanted to see his face again,” Isabella went on. “Then he left for Switzerland the next week. So why him? Why now?” Fallon lowered her eyes. Because this wasn’t her first life. And in that life, she found out the truth too late. Out of all five men, only Eamon Burke had ever really loved her. But she didn’t know it before. … In her last life, she had stood in this very spot, brimming with excitement as she told her mother she was going to marry Matteo Moretti. She’d had no idea the eldest son of the Moretti family would fake his own death just to run away with another woman. She had been trapped in that lie for twenty years. The Marino family was old-money New York. Her mother, Isabella, had been close friends for years with the matriarchs of the Moretti, Bellini, Romano, Ferraro, and ......

I once had a best friend. She was so good to me, it felt like a performance. She married my ex-boyfriend, whose family was fantastically wealthy. She told me all rich men were terrible, so she was taking a bullet for me. She sold the Cartier wedding set he gave her, then told him the money was for my birthday gift. She maxed out the Amex Centurion card her husband had given her, then told him it was to pay off my gambling debts in Las Vegas. She was pregnant, but after sleeping with her husband's younger brother, she began to hemorrhage. She told everyone I’d been sleeping with strangers, and when she tried to talk some sense into me, I’d pushed her, causing the miscarriage. In the end, her husband dragged me to an abandoned warehouse outside the city and handed me over to some of his brother's criminal associates to make me "pay the price." I was violated there, and left to die in that wasteland. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day she cheated and had the miscarriage. ... Every time Helena went to see her lover, she told her husband, Desmond DeLuca, that she was coming to keep me company. She always had a new excuse. Sometimes, she’d say I was reeling from a breakup and couldn't be alone. Other times, she’d claim I’d lost a fortune gambling and was a wreck. She even said I was having an abortion and she needed to be there for me. If Desmond hadn't shown up at my door in my previous life, his face a mask of rage as he listed every "sin" I'd committed, I might never have known how twisted my life sounded coming from someone else. Just then, Desmond's call came through. The second I answered, he was yelling. "Beatrice, do you have any idea what time it is? Why is Helena still at your place?" "I've had it with you. Grow up. The world doesn't revolve around you." "Helena is a married, pregnant woman. Stop clinging to her. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look?" "Or is this just you holding a gr......