Because I loved them both.

That was my crime.

Trust.

My mother’s investigation suggested theirs was much worse.

Fraud.

Forgery.

Conspiracy.

And something buried so deeply in Shelby’s past that even Elias seemed unsettled when he found it.

But before he told me that, I discovered the ring.

I called Laurent Bisset, the jeweler who had created my original piece.

He remembered it immediately.

“Two concealed Kashmir sapphires beneath the gallery,” he said. “Your idea.”

“Exactly.”

“And the inscription?”

My heart stopped.

“What inscription?”

A pause.

“Inside the band.”

I had forgotten.

On our tenth anniversary, after Preston finally agreed to have the ring made, I had asked Laurent to engrave six words inside.

Still choosing you, every single day.

I closed my eyes.

“Mr. Bisset, did anyone bring that ring to you recently?”

Silence.

Then:

“I may need to speak to counsel before answering.”

That was answer enough.

Elias’s attorney obtained the records two days later.

Shelby had brought my ring to Laurent’s workshop four months earlier.

She requested resizing.

Polishing.

A replacement platinum shank.

No changes to the stones.

“How did she get it?” Elias asked.

“I thought it was stolen during my move after the divorce.”

“You kept it in your safe.”

“Yes.”

“Who knew the combination?”

“Preston.”

He nodded.

Of course.

That night, I sat alone in my apartment and finally allowed myself to mourn my marriage.

Not the man.

The years.

Fourteen birthdays.

Eleven anniversaries.

Christmas mornings.

Fights over furniture.

Trips to Paris.

Burned dinners.

Hospital waiting rooms.

A thousand ordinary kisses.

It is one thing to discover someone stopped loving you. It is another to discover they turned the evidence that you once loved them into a gift for someone else.

At two in the morning I opened a bottle of wine.

At two fifteen, I poured it down the sink.

I wanted to remember everything.

Especially what happened next.

Three days before the wedding, Elias called.

“We found the missing file.”

“What missing file?”

“The one Eleanor was trying to obtain before she died.”

I was at my desk.

“What is it?”

“A recording.”

“Of what?”

“Preston and Shelby.”

My fingers tightened around the phone.

“From the hotel?”

“Yes.”

I stood.

“How?”

“The suite had an automated conference system. Preston connected his laptop to it that evening. The hotel’s network created a temporary cloud backup.”

“Can we retrieve it?”

“We have.”

My heart began beating harder.

“What’s on it?”

Elias didn’t answer immediately.

“Come here.”

I drove to his office through pouring rain.

He was waiting with a laptop open.

Beside him sat Miriam Cole, my mother’s attorney.

That frightened me more than anything.

Miriam had been with the Blackwell family for thirty years.

She stood when I entered.

“Vivienne.”

“What is this?”

Elias closed the door.

“Sit.”

“No.”

“Please.”

I sat.

He pressed play.

At first, there was only muffled movement.

A door closing.

Glasses.

Preston’s voice.

Then Shelby.

Clear enough to recognize instantly.

“How long does Eleanor have?”

My blood turned cold.

Preston answered.

“Hours, maybe.”

Shelby sighed.

“And Vivienne?”

“At the hospital.”

“Good.”

I covered my mouth.

Another voice entered.

A man’s.

I recognized him after several seconds.

Graham Vale.

Chief financial officer of Hale Strategic Partners.