The elevator ride up to my lawyer’s office on the forty-fifth floor of Midtown Manhattan felt like a descent into hell.

By eight o'clock that evening, the news hit the financial feeds.

“Rising Star COO Julian Carter Ousted Amid Multi-Million Dollar Embezzlement Investigation.”

My mugshot—taken at the NYPD 17th Precinct after Arthur negotiated my voluntary surrender—was splashed across every business blog and news network. My face looked pale, haggard, and utterly broken.

Thanks to Arthur’s swift action and a two-million-dollar bail bond put up by my desperate, heartbroken mother, I was released pending formal arraignment. But I couldn't go back to the Greenwich home. It was surrounded by news trucks and private investigators.

I walked through the pouring rain to the luxury high-rise apartment I had secretly rented for Vanessa in Soho. It was the only place left where I had a key.

When I unlocked the door, I found Vanessa sitting on the sofa, surrounded by designer luggage. She was frantically packing her dresses into Louis Vuitton trunks.

"Julian?" she gasped, dropping an armful of silk scarves. "What are you doing here?! The police were at my agency this afternoon! They froze my business accounts!"

"Vanessa," I breathed, walking toward her, searching for a single shred of comfort, a single warm anchor in the hurricane of my life. "We can get through this. The lawyers are working on a plea bargain—"

"A plea bargain?!" she screeched, stepping away from me as if I had a contagious disease. "Julian, you told me those offshore accounts were yours! You told me you were an independent investor! You lied to me!"

I stopped in my tracks. "I lied to you? Vanessa, I stole that money for you! I bought you this apartment! I bought your company! I paid off your debts!"

"I didn't ask you to steal from your wife's father!" she screamed, her face contorted in anger. "You told me you were divorcing Claire because she was a boring, needy housewife! You didn't tell me she was a bloody genius who controlled the family trust!"

"She's my wife!" I shouted back, the hypocrisy of my words slapping me in the face the moment they left my mouth.

"Well, she isn't anymore!" Vanessa sneered, zipping up her suitcase. "And I'm not going down with you. The FBI already talked to me. I signed a cooperation agreement, Julian. I told them I had no idea the money was embezzled. I gave them every text message, every email, and every gift receipt you ever sent me."

I stared at her in absolute disbelief. The woman I had chosen over my loyal, selfless wife—the woman I had traded my newborn son’s peace for—had sold me out to the federal government in less than six hours to save her own skin.

"Get out," I said, my voice barely audible.

"Excuse me?"

"GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT!" I roared, slamming my fist against the wall.

Vanessa snatched her bags and sprinted out the door, her high heels clicking frantically down the corridor until the elevator doors closed.

Silence descended upon the empty luxury apartment.

I fell to my knees on the hardwood floor. The room smelled of her perfume, but all I could see was Claire's face.

I remembered the night Noah was born. It had been a long, terrifying thirty-hour labor. When the doctor finally placed our tiny, pink son into Claire’s arms, she had looked up at me with tears streaming down her face, whispering, “We made a miracle, Julian. Promise me you’ll love him forever.”

And I had promised.

Then, three weeks later, bored by the sleepless nights, annoyed by her post-partum exhaustion, and lured by the thrill of corporate power and shallow lust, I had turned my back on my miracle.

I pulled out my personal phone—the one the police hadn't seized. I opened my photo gallery. There were hundreds of pictures of Vanessa, of parties, of expensive wines and yachts.

I scrolled past all of them until I reached a photo taken four months ago.

Claire was sitting in the nursery rocker, wearing an oversized sweater, her hair tied in a messy bun, dark circles under her soft brown eyes. She was holding baby Noah against her chest, fast asleep, a small, tired smile on her face.

I had taken that photo right before leaving the house, telling her I had an emergency flight to Chicago.

I hadn't gone to Chicago. I had gone to a rooftop bar in Manhattan to meet Vanessa.