Chapter 1We Both Loved My Best Friend

My husband Declan and I were married for three years. At home, I was the perfect wife who cooked and cared for him. In public, he was the devoted husband who never strayed. To the world, we were the model couple.

Then came the night of a private gala. He got drunk and called me to pick him up. I hurried to the suite, but as my hand reached for the door, I heard his friend’s teasing voice float through.

“Declan, man, you’re something else. Three years with Victoria and not an ounce of real feeling. Are you sure you never felt even a little spark?”

Declan’s reply was slick with careless arrogance.

“My heart has only ever belonged to Sophia. Victoria was just a stepping stone to get closer to her.”

And Sophia, the woman he spoke of, was my best friend of twelve years.

* * *

I froze, my fingers hovering over the phone screen, the words “Honey, I’m at the door” still typed out in the message box. All the warmth drained from my body.

For three years, everyone said I had married for love.

In their eyes, I was a promising fashion designer, and he was the brilliant, self-made tycoon. I had naively believed we were destined for each other.

Last year, I had a fever of 102. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I felt someone taking care of me. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw Declan wearing my pink apron, a bowl of oatmeal in his hands. He’d even managed to cook an egg into the shape of a heart on top.

“I looked it up online,” he’d said softly. “They said this is good for a fever. I simmered it for half an hour. Want to try?”

Lying there in his arms, I thought, This is it. This is my forever.

Four years ago, I was a nobody in the design world. Frustrated with a blank sketchpad, I posted a throwaway comment online: “Can anyone save my inspiration? One more creative block and I’m quitting to sell boba tea!”

Less than ten minutes later, a private message popped up from a user named “D.”

“The waistlines in your designs are too conservative. Try incorporating satin panels and an asymmetrical hem. It might break you out of the rut.”

On a whim, I tried his suggestions. That design ended up winning a small award.

Our conversations grew from there, weaving from design to life. He understood my passion, and I understood the grueling work he put into his start-up.

When he proposed, he said, “Victoria, I want to take care of you for the rest of my life. Marry me.”

Through a blur of happy tears, I had shouted, “Yes, Declan, I will.”

Looking back now, all that sweetness feels like an elaborate, meticulously crafted lie.