Chapter 1

The sterile, white walls of Jocelyn Gordon' s San Francisco mansion felt like a prison I had built for myself. For seven years, this was my life, a carefully constructed performance for her company' s board.

They liked their CEO to have a traditional family image, and I, Ethan Lester, a classically trained chef from Philly, was the perfect prop. In exchange, she paid for my father' s experimental cancer treatment, a debt I could never repay with money.

Tonight was the fourth year she' d started bringing her lovers home. My role had long since devolved from "husband" to a glorified house manager.

Ryan Hughes, her latest boy toy, stood in my kitchen, a smug grin on his face. He was a fitness influencer, all manufactured confidence and sculpted muscle, a cheap copy of some college ex she was still obsessed with.

"So, you're the chef," he said, his eyes raking over me with disdain. "Jocelyn told me she keeps you around. Must be nice, not having to work for a living."

I just stared at him, my hands clenched into fists. Years of this had worn down my pride, but tonight, something felt different.

Later, I was banished to the guest house, the sounds from the main bedroom a constant, humiliating reminder of my position. The cool, minimalist sheets felt like a shroud.

The next morning, Jocelyn strode into the kitchen, not even a glance in my direction.

"Ethan, I want the chilaquiles with the salsa verde you make, the one with the hand-toasted cumin seeds. And make sure the eggs are poached at exactly 145 degrees. Ryan likes them runny."

It was a complex order, designed to remind me of my place. For seven years, I had complied. Today, I didn't move.

"No."

The word hung in the air, heavy and unfamiliar. Jocelyn finally turned to look at me, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"What did you say?"

"I said no."

Ryan sauntered in then, shirtless, stretching like he owned the place. He was wearing my mother's signet ring. My blood ran cold. It was a simple gold ring, an heirloom I cherished, the one Jocelyn had screamed at me for misplacing a year ago.

"Jocelyn, babe, is breakfast ready?" he asked, then he caught my eye and smirked, wiggling the finger with my mother's ring on it.

I looked at Jocelyn, my voice shaking with a rage I hadn't felt in years. "Why is he wearing that?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that old thing? He found it. It looks better on him anyway. Don't be so dramatic, Ethan."

That was it. The final thread snapped. The pride, the love, the gratitude-it all turned to ash. I was nothing to her. Less than nothing.

I looked from her cold, indifferent face to the smirking boy wearing my mother's memory on his hand. I felt a strange calm settle over me. It was the calm of a man who had finally, truly lost everything and had nothing left to fear.