My ex-husband smirked when he saw me at a Charleston wedding and bragged, “Best five years of my life”—but then a little girl ran into my arms shouting “Mommy!” and the smug look on his face disappeared when he realized just how completely I’d moved on…

The audit dragged on for three grueling days. By Thursday afternoon, the paper trail was undeniably clear.

Drew hadn’t just been engaging in risky investments; he had been running a classic, high-society shell game. To keep up the appearance of immense wealth after purchasing an eight-million-dollar estate on Sullivan’s Island and funding Vanessa’s lavish lifestyle, Drew had been commingling client investment funds with his personal management accounts. When the market dipped, he forged transaction logs to hide the deficit, praying that the impending secondary public offering would infuse enough new capital to cover the missing millions before the board noticed.

It was reckless. It was arrogant. And it was deeply illegal.

At 6:30 PM on Thursday, I finally walked out of the Apex corporate headquarters. The humid evening air hit my face, refreshing after twelve hours under fluorescent lights. My report was ninety percent finalized; by tomorrow morning, it would be on Richard Sterling’s desk, and federal regulators would likely be notified by midday.

As I approached my SUV in the executive parking garage, a dark figure stepped out from behind a concrete pillar.

"Maren."

I stopped instantly, my hand sliding inside my purse to grip my phone.

Drew stood in the dim light of the parking garage. He was no longer wearing his designer jacket; his white shirt was rumpled, his hair unwashed, and a bottle of expensive bourbon hung from his right hand, half-empty.

"Drew," I said, keeping my distance. "You shouldn't be here. You’re violating every corporate boundary Apex established."

He took an unsteady step forward, holding his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. "I don't give a damn about Apex, Maren. Apex is dead to me. The whole board is a bunch of cowards."

"Step back, Drew. I mean it."

Drew stopped, leaning against the hood of a parked Mercedes. He stared at me with an expression that was an unsettling cocktail of intoxication, rage, and sudden, desperate sentimentality.

"Do you remember Paris?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Our honeymoon. We sat on that little balcony in Montmartre, drinking cheap red wine, and we made a promise. We promised we’d always have each other’s backs, no matter what."

I felt a surge of pure disgust rise in my throat. "You broke that promise, Drew. You broke it repeatedly, in our bed, in our home, with Vanessa and God knows who else."

"I made a mistake!" he yelled, taking another lurching step toward me. "Vanessa was a mistake! She’s shallow, Maren! She spends money like water! She doesn't understand me the way you did! She doesn't believe in me!"

"And you think I do?"

"You loved me," Drew whispered, his eyes gleaming with desperate tears. "You loved me more than anyone ever has. I know I hurt you. God, I know I was cruel. But you’re doing this audit because you're angry, right? You want revenge. Fine! You’ve had it! You've brought me to my knees. You showed me that you survived. Now... please, Maren. Delete the Belize files. Just mark them as unverified administrative oversights. If you do that, the board will settle with me quietly. I can walk away with ten million dollars. We could—"

"We could what, Drew?" I interrupted, my voice dangerously low. "Finish that sentence. Tell me what delusion is living inside your head right now."

Drew swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically. "You and me. We could start over. You leave that maritime guy. Bring Clara. I don't care that she’s his kid. We could move to Europe. Just like we always talked about."

The sheer, psychotic arrogance of his proposal left me momentarily speechless. He truly believed that a woman he had psychologically tortured, betrayed, and discarded would abandon her loving husband, her stable life, and her child's future just to become his escape vehicle.

"You are completely out of your mind," I said coldly.

Before Drew could respond, the blinding beam of high-powered LED headlights swept across the garage floor, pinning Drew against the concrete pillar.

The low, throaty growl of a twin-turbo engine echoed off the concrete walls. A sleek, black Range Rover pulled smoothly into the aisle, blocking Drew’s path to my car.

The driver’s door opened.

Julian stepped out.

He didn't rush. He didn't yell. He stood at his full six-foot-two height, his dark wool coat unbuttoned, his face carved from pure granite. He walked around the hood of his vehicle and positioned himself directly between Drew and me, an unyielding wall of muscle, authority, and absolute protection.