Alexander’s older sister.
The woman who had watched with satisfaction when I was forced out of our Manhattan penthouse five years earlier.
She raised her champagne glass.
“Well.”
Her smile was cold.
“Some ghosts really don’t understand when they’re supposed to stay buried.”
I smiled back.
Vanessa had absolutely no idea how appropriate those words were.
Five years earlier, my marriage had collapsed in less than a week.
Alexander received photographs of me entering a hotel with another man.
Then came emails.
Messages that supposedly proved I had been having an affair.
At the time, I was eight weeks pregnant.
I begged him to listen.
He refused.
“You humiliated me.”
“The emails aren’t mine.”
“Stop lying.”
“The photographs don’t mean what you think.”
“I said stop.”
Three days later, his attorneys delivered divorce papers.
Our prenup included an infidelity clause.
Because of the evidence presented against me, Alexander’s family made certain I walked away with almost nothing.
I left Manhattan carrying two suitcases.
And a child Alexander didn’t even know existed.
That day, I made myself one promise.
