Chapter 1

On my way to sell the only designer necklace Gavin had ever given me, I saw him at the Madison Avenue boutique with one arm wrapped around Lily Carter's waist.

"Pick anything you want," he said, smiling down at her.

For months, Lily's supposedly grave illness had kept us living as if one missed paycheck might put us on the street. Gavin and I had spent our anniversary splitting two plates at a grimy twelve-dollar diner, and every night after work, I picked bruised produce from the clearance bin.

Even when my fever climbed to 104, he refused to take me to a doctor.

"Do you know what an ER visit costs? We're broke, Emma. Tough it out."

By the time I collapsed and made it to the hospital, the infection had spread to my lungs. The doctors kept me sedated for seven days while they fought to stabilize me.

Now Gavin stood beneath the boutique's crystal lights, looking as though money had never once kept him awake.

"What if Emma finds out?" Lily asked. Her smile was sweet. "Imagine how furious she'd be if she knew all that money she saved was paying for an illness that doesn't even exist."

Behind me, the sales associate was still explaining the appraisal. Her words blurred into the soft music drifting through the showroom, and the necklace in my hand suddenly felt too heavy.

"Ms. Sinclair?" She lifted the three-year-old piece. "Are you sure you want to sell it?"

"No."

I looked past her at the glittering display cases.

"Pack up every new piece in the store. I'll take them all."

By the time I stepped into the showroom, Gavin was fastening a platinum cuff around Lily's wrist.

The bracelet was the boutique's showpiece—more than four ounces of solid platinum resting on black velvet, with a price tag to match.

"This is way too expensive." Lily's voice dropped. "You'd really buy it for me?"

Gavin had always cared about appearances. Afraid someone might recognize me selling secondhand jewelry and embarrass him, I had come in wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses, and an oversized coat.

"Nothing's too expensive for you."

He tapped her forehead and handed over his card without a pause.

My gaze fell to the dress I had worn for three years, its fabric washed so often that the original color was barely a memory. Only yesterday, I had mentioned a twenty-five-dollar sundress.

Gavin had not even looked up.

"You hardly leave the house. Why does it matter what you wear? You know what things are like right now, Emma. I thought you were different. I thought you understood what it took to build a life together."

Twenty-five dollars for me had required a lecture. Twenty-five thousand for Lily barely required a signature.

The sales associate smiled at them. "Your boyfriend treats you well."

Gavin's brow tightened, the correction already forming, but Lily rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

"He does."

He had never been able to bear embarrassing her. The hesitation vanished from his face, and he slipped an arm around her waist before leading her toward the exit.

As they passed me, his gaze caught on my dress.

"That looks familiar."

Lily leaned against his arm with a laugh. "Ugly, isn't it? Cheap and shapeless. Your washed-up girlfriend at home has the same awful taste."

"You're right."

The associate unwrapped my necklace from its three layers of soft cloth. Beneath the showroom lights, the dated setting looked dull.

Gavin had given it to me on our third anniversary. Having grown up poor, he still called thrift a virtue even after becoming one of the city's most talked-about young entrepreneurs.

"Spend money on things and all you get is junk," he liked to say. "Invest it, and the money works for you. That's how you create value."

I had believed him. It had never occurred to me that jewelry was only wasteful when it was meant for me.

While the associate weighed the necklace, I nodded toward the door.

"The couple who just left—do you know them?"

"They're regulars. He opened a private-client profile in her name." She glanced wistfully at the entrance. "He buys her something almost every month. Sometimes an entire collection. I wish I had a boyfriend like that."

I couldn't remember the last time I'd bought something that hadn't come from a clearance rack. The doctor who treated me the previous month had called it severe malnutrition.

The associate finished her inspection and slid a form across the counter.

"The setting is dated, so the best we can offer is twenty percent of retail. If you'd like to go ahead, sign here."

My fingers trembled around the pen.

That morning, Gavin had called to say Lily had relapsed. Our joint checking account held thirty dollars and eight cents. I had cried, taken out the necklace engraved with our names, and hurried here.

Every available dollar, Gavin said, was tied up in his company. That was why I had stayed home when I got sick. Why we still ate at a dining table that groaned whenever someone touched it.

All the while, he had been bringing Lily here.

I tore the agreement in half.

"I want every new piece you have—limited editions, investment pieces, all of it. The total should be several million. I'll pay the deposit today and the rest within a week."

I went home early and let myself in without a sound.

From the upstairs landing came Lily's irritated voice.

"How much longer do I have to pretend I'm sick? Is this even working? Emma's been feeding me bland recovery food for months. I have to sneak out every time she leaves just to eat something decent."

"I know." Gavin's reply was soft, almost tender. "It's been hard on you."

He lowered his voice, but in the still house, every word carried.

"Before Emma's father died, he put most of her inheritance in a protected trust. The trustee can release the principal, but Emma has to request it in writing. She'll never touch that money unless she thinks we're desperate."

"So how much longer?"

"Not long. She can't stand watching me suffer. Once she believes I have to pull funding from a Hart Group project to cover your treatment, she'll ask for the distribution herself."

A pause. Then, more softly, "When it comes through, I'll put every dollar in your name. You'll finally have the life you deserve."

My hand tightened around the banister.

They had read me exactly right. If the necklace had not been enough to keep us afloat, I would have gone straight to the trustee.

Not anymore.

I washed my face with cold water, then called the man who managed my father's estate.

"I'd like a principal distribution," I said. "When the boutique sends its invoice next week, pay them directly."