Chapter 1

Sophia's Pov

The aircraft door sealed shut behind me with that familiar hiss, and I pulled my carry-on through the jet bridge at JFK. Sixteen hours from New York to Tokyo, and all I wanted was a hot shower and my bed.

My phone buzzed before I even made it to the crew exit.

Chase: "Emergency. Your 'brother-in-law' just carried his precious sister out of here like she was on her deathbed. AGAIN."

I stopped walking, my fingers tightening around my phone.

Chase: "Half the crew thinks SHE'S Captain Hawthorne's wife. I'm about to lose it for you, girl."

Captain Hawthorne. That's what everyone called him here, the composed, unreachable pilot who commanded respect the moment he walked into any room. They didn't know that Damien Hawthorne was my husband. That I'd been wearing his ring for three years, hidden on a chain beneath my uniform.

They didn't know because he'd never told them. Because our marriage was a secret. A contract. A mistake that started seven years ago in a hotel room I still couldn't think about without feeling sick.

"Sophia!" Chase's voice cut through my thoughts as he jogged up beside me, his roller bag clattering. "Did you see my texts?"

"I saw them."

"And?" His eyes were bright with protective fury. "Isabella has another 'episode' the second we land, and your husband drops everything to play hero? When does this end?"

When our contract expires in three months, I thought. When I'm finally free.

"She was probably really sick, Chase."

"She's ALWAYS sick. Conveniently sick. Every time you and Damien are on the same flight." He lowered his voice as other crew members passed. "Everyone thinks they're together. Do you know how that makes me feel? Watching you pretend you're just colleagues while that delicate little flower gets everything?"

I did know. Because I felt it too—the humiliation of being erased, of watching my own husband rush to another woman's side over and over again while I stood invisible.

But I'd signed up for this. I'd signed actual papers.

"I need to get home," I said quietly.

"Come to mine and Marco's instead. We'll order Thai food, drink wine, and I'll let you throw darts at a picture of Isabella's face."

Despite everything, I almost smiled. "I'll be fine."

"That house isn't your home, Sophia. It's a prison with marble floors."

He wasn't wrong.

The car ride to Silvercrest Estate took forty-five minutes through evening traffic. Forty-five minutes of trying not to think about where Damien was right now, whether Isabella was really that sick or just wanted his attention again.

She always wanted his attention. And he always gave it.

The gate opened automatically as my car approached, recognizing the vehicle Damien had assigned to me. Everything here recognized me as property—the gate, the security system, the staff. Everything except the family who lived here.

The Hawthornes had made it very clear on my wedding day that I would never be one of them.

Mrs. Walsh, the head housekeeper, had left the kitchen light on. The rest of the house was dark, vast, and cold. Twenty thousand square feet of luxury that felt more like a museum than a home.

I dropped my bag on the couch qand headed upstairs, my heels echoing off imported Italian marble. Everything in this house cost more than most people made in a year. Everything was perfect and untouchable.

Just like my husband.

Our bedroom—because despite everything, we did share a bed—smelled like his cologne. Something expensive and dark that probably had a French name I couldn't pronounce. The sheets were crisp and white, made by hands I'd never see, in a country I'd never visit.

I was unclasping my necklace when I heard the front door open downstairs.

My heart did something stupid. Something hopeful.

Footsteps on the stairs. Then Damien appeared in the doorway, still in his captain's uniform, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his blue eyes unreadable.

God, he was beautiful. Three years, and he still made my breath catch.

"You're home," he said, his voice that low rumble that used to make me feel safe.

"So are you. How's Isabella?"

"Panic attack. She's stable now." He loosened his tie, watching me. "You're upset."

"I'm tired."

"Sophia—"

"I said I'm tired, Damien." I turned back to the mirror, my hands shaking slightly as I removed my earrings. "Long flight."

He moved behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His hands settled on my waist, possessive and familiar.

"Let me help you relax," he murmured against my neck.

This was our pattern. He'd leave for Isabella, come back to me, and use the one thing we had—this explosive physical chemistry—to smooth over everything else. And God help me, my body still responded even when my mind screamed to push him away.

His fingers found the zipper of my uniform. "I thought about you during the flight."

Liar. He'd barely acknowledged me for sixteen hours.

But I let him undress me anyway. Let him carry me to our bed. Let him touch me in ways that made me forget, temporarily, that this marriage was just a transaction. That he'd never chosen me. That he never would.

Afterward, we lay tangled in expensive sheets, his arm heavy across my waist. The room was dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains.

I took a breath, gathering courage. "Damien, I need to talk to you about something."

"Mm?" His voice was drowsy, satisfied.

"It's about our arrangement. I think we should—"

His phone lit up on the nightstand. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

I felt every muscle in his body tense.

"Don't," I whispered. "Please. Just this once, stay."

But he was already reaching for it, the blue light harsh on his face as he read the messages.

"It's Isabella," he said, sitting up. "She's frightened. She's asking for me—"

"Damien, please." My voice cracked despite my best efforts. "Just once. Choose me."

He paused, shirtless, phone in hand. For one second, I saw conflict flash across his face. Hesitation.

Then his phone buzzed again.

"I'm sorry." He grabbed his shirt from the floor. "She needs me. She's having nightmares again—"

"And what about what I need?"

The words hung in the air between us. He stared at me, and I stared back, and something shifted. Something broke.

"Sophia—"

"Forget it." I pulled the sheet up, suddenly cold. "Go. You always do anyway."

He finished dressing in silence. At the door, he paused. "I'll be back."

But I knew he wouldn't. Not tonight. He'd stay with her until dawn, holding her hand, being the hero she needed.

While I stayed here. Alone. Always alone.

I listened to his car pull away, then grabbed my phone and texted Chase.

"You're right. I can't do this anymore. I want out. Now."

His reply came instantly: "THANK GOD. Come over tomorrow. Marco and I will help you plan."

I stared at the screen, my decision visualizing into something real and terrifying and necessary.

Three years of this. Three years of being second choice. Three years of a marriage that existed only on paper and in this bedroom.

I was done.