Chapter 1The Lace Slip Lie

The snarky little post I’d made on The Sprawl—a private forum for rich, disgruntled wives—had exploded overnight.

I had vented about finding yet another piece of lingerie that wasn't mine. Now, I watched the comments roll in, but one private message stood out, a blue-check account I didn't recognize:

@UnattainableIdeal: He didn't cheat. He just wants you to flirt with him, Avery. He wants you to stop being so buttoned-up and boring.

I snapped a photo of the pale pink lace slip I’d just pulled from between the sofa cushions—a damning piece of evidence if ever there was one.

@AveryThorne: Are you sure about that?

The typing bubble appeared and vanished several times. A few seconds of silence stretched.

@UnattainableIdeal: ...He wants you to wear it.

I was done with the whole ridiculous, degrading scavenger hunt. This was the tenth piece of intimate apparel I’d found in our Boston penthouse in as many months.

I ignored the anonymous user and grabbed my phone to call my lawyer, Leo. "Did you finally draft those papers?"

* * *

Miles Thorne pushed the door open, his expression as cool and detached as the polished granite countertop in the kitchen.

I was sitting on the Italian leather sofa, staring straight at him. Next to me, the pale pink lace slip was a glaring, obvious spot against the charcoal gray cushion.

Miles glanced over. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, brushed past me, landed on the lingerie, and then moved on without a flicker of acknowledgment. He simply walked toward the stairs.

The sheer dismissal was a slap in the face. Impotent rage—that’s what the feeling was. He was bringing women into our home, leaving their secrets scattered for me to find, and he couldn't even bother to offer a lie. He treated me like a ghost in my own marriage mausoleum.

I snatched up my phone and went back to my post on The Sprawl, typing furiously.

@AveryThorne: My husband is cheating, fine. But does he have to keep leaving lace slips and silky camisoles everywhere? What is his goal? To provoke me? Can't he keep his affairs out of the house?!

The comments poured in.

WTF, is he serious? You haven't yelled at him?

He's definitely doing it on purpose.

Why are you staying, girl? Do you like the drama?

I replied with cold cynicism: Look, he might be a player, but the man has money. Serious money.

The collective wisdom of the internet told me to swallow my pride and stop looking for the evidence. A trade-off, Avery.

While I was wallowing in this melancholy, the private message popped up again.

@UnattainableIdeal: He didn't cheat. He just wants you to flirt with him, Avery. He wants you to stop being so buttoned-up and boring.

I narrowed my eyes. How could you possibly know that?

No reply.

I scoffed, taking the picture of the slip again and sending it. You sure? If you don't find this repulsive, you have my respect. (Followed by a strong-arm emoji).

@UnattainableIdeal: ...He wants you to wear it.

I actually laughed. This person was a complete freak.

I was genuinely tired of this. I hadn’t looked at the account again, dialing my lawyer, Leo. "Is the divorce agreement ready?"

Last month, I’d found a satin bunny costume tucked deep under the master bed. That was the last straw. I’d called Leo that night.

But Miles and I had been married for five years, and I’d grown very accustomed to the life his money afforded. There was also the residual, old feeling of affection. I had loved him—until his nonstop work, his constant absence, slowly chipped away at the foundation until there was nothing left but two strangers sharing a very expensive zip code.

My hesitation had stalled the process. I kept thinking I needed the right time to talk to him. Now, I thought, maybe he’s been trying to talk to me all along. Maybe this whole lingerie scavenger hunt was his clumsy, silent plea for me to end it. Fine. I’ll give him what he wants.

Leo replied, "It's been ready for a week, Avery. But I'm out of the country. Do you want to come to the firm and pick it up, or should I have my assistant courier it to you?"

"Courier it," I sighed. "Your firm is practically in the next state. I'm too lazy for that drive..."

A cold voice cut through the silence of the room. "Avery. Who are you talking to?"

I instantly hung up, turning to face him, forcing a casual look. "I thought you were in your study."

Miles stood on the bottom step, his eyebrows low, his gaze locked onto me. "Who were you just on the phone with?"

Was he interrogating me? The man who was currently having an affair? I glared back. "Mind your own business."

I yanked the lace slip fully out of the couch, marched toward him, and threw it right at his chest. "Why don't you mind your own first."