That morning, Natalia woke up the way she always did: certain that it was one more day closer to the end of her marriage.

It had been exactly two days since Branko Sitik's first love — her now-husband's — had returned. And she wasn't about to be the third wheel. No, sir. The Santinos didn't compete for men who were already ignoring them while married.

She climbed out of bed with the grace of a lazy cat, stretched her arms, and checked the clock. 6:47 a.m. Branko would already be up, of course. That man didn't need sleep. He'd probably already gone running, eaten breakfast, and answered forty emails before she could even remember her own name.

"Disgusting level of efficiency," she muttered as she stepped into the bathroom.

The hot water ran down her back, and like every morning, her mind began the ritual: the memory. She couldn't stop it. It was like a movie someone forced her to watch every time she closed her eyes.

Two years ago.

The Sitik family, their contract crumbling, had come crawling to the Santinos' feet. And she, Natalia Ricaldi — now Natalia Ricaldi de Sitik, though that last name weighed on her like a tombstone — held the key.

Everyone crawled: her own parents, who treated her like a money-making machine; her sister Lucia, fake as a three-dollar bill and needier than a drowning man, begging her to help the family of the man she was crazy about.

And the Sitiks. The very same people who'd once told her she wasn't worthy of being part of their family. The very same people who'd looked her up and down at a dinner and whispered, "Too young, too improvised."

Now they begged.

"We need a marriage alliance," Mr. Sitik had said, flashing his shark smile. "Your company, ours — it would be mutually beneficial."

Natalia smiled in the shower, a bitter smile the steam couldn't disguise.

She had fallen in love. Since she was a girl. Since she was fifteen, when she saw Branko at a party and her teenage heart went boom, like cheap fireworks. But nobody in that story loved her. They all just saw convenience.

Including Branko.

Especially Branko.

She was the perfect pawn: young, pretty, with a company pulling in millions and a family so dysfunctional that anything else looked like paradise. Branko accepted her the way you accept a corporate merger: with a handshake and a cold stare.

Nobody in that room loved her. Nobody.

She turned off the faucet. Towel-dried her hair, threw on a robe, and walked out of the bathroom with the determination of someone heading into a battle she'd already lost but was going to fight anyway.

She went downstairs — that mansion with its gray walls and enormous windows, more mausoleum than home — and found him there.

Branko Sitik was sitting at the breakfast table in his black silk robe, hair still damp, staring at his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.

Natalia approached with silent steps and, out of the corner of her eye, caught the messages.

Valeria: "Loved the apartment. You're so thoughtful. Coffee today?"

Valeria: "Thanks for picking me up at the airport. You don't know how much that meant to me."

Branko: "4 o'clock at the usual spot."

Natalia looked away quickly.

Her heart — the one she'd declared dead months ago — still twisted. A small spasm of pain she ignored with the same ease you ignore bad news on your phone.

She sat across from him, poured a coffee she had no intention of drinking, and spoke in her most serene voice.

That voice she'd perfected since she was seventeen, when she realized that no matter what she did, she'd never get her parents to love her, her sister to value her, the Sitiks to respect her — and least of all, much less, get Branko to see her as anything more than a contract.

"I'm glad you haven't left," Natalia said. "Saves on paperwork."

Branko glanced up from his phone. One second. No more. His brow slightly furrowed, as if she were an annoying noise.

"What is it?" he asked with genuine disinterest. Like someone asking the time without wanting to know.

Natalia smiled. A small smile, barely perceptible.

"I need you to sign the divorce agreement."

Silence.

The kind of silence you feel in your bones.

Branko set his phone face-down on the table. For the first time in days, he gave her his full attention. His gray eyes — so cold, so calculating, so handsome, and that infuriated her — examined her as if searching for the punchline.

"What?" he said. His voice lower than usual.

"Divorce," Natalia repeated, as if discussing the weather. "Strange weather today, don't you think? Looks like rain. And I need your signature."

"Are you crazy?"

"That remains to be seen. Are you signing?"

Branko leaned back in his chair. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Natalia watched him with those sharp eyes few people knew how to appreciate. It wasn't just beauty — though she had it, undeniable, from her dark hair to her high cheekbones — it was that spark.

That way of looking at you that said, I know what you're going to do before you do.

Natalia was twenty-three years old. Just turned. And since she was twenty, she'd been running Santino Corp with an iron fist and a shark's instinct.

She'd staged a coup against her own father, and nobody — nobody — saw it coming. Because what no one knew was the spectacular mind Natalia had.

A machine for making connections, for reading people, for spotting the scandal where others saw normalcy.

"Why do you want the divorce?" Branko asked, irritated. "What are you playing at?"

Natalia tilted her head. Looked at him. And then dropped the bomb with the same ease other people say "pass the salt."

"Valeria's back. I don't want to be cheated on. You can't have us both, and since you haven't chosen, I'm choosing for both of us."

Branko's face went blank.

He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He just stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.

"What does Valeria have to do with us?" he said at last, with a poorly disguised edge of impatience. "We're just friends."

"Oh, are you?" Natalia arched an eyebrow. "Because the minute she showed up, you went to pick her up at the airport. You got her the apartment she's moving into in two days. You run to see her every time she gets scared by a car horn. That's 'just friends,' Branko? Because in my book, that has another name."

Branko opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Speechless.

Again.

Natalia stood slowly, picked up her untouched coffee, and carried it to the sink. Spine straight. Steps steady. She wasn't going to cry in front of him. She saved that for the shower, where the water could hide it.

NATALIA

"Sign the papers," she said without turning around. "They're on your desk."

Branko shot to his feet. The chair screeched against the floor. Natalia felt his footsteps closing in, but she didn't move. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

BRANKO

"I'm not signing anything," he said, his voice tight. "We're not talking about this right now."

And he left.

He walked out of the kitchen like a contained hurricane, shoulders rigid, hands jammed in his pockets. Natalia heard him take the stairs two at a time, then his office door shutting with a dry bang.

She stayed at the kitchen counter, staring at a ridiculous sticker on the refrigerator. A magnet shaped like an avocado that read "Everything's gonna be avo-kay."

"Liar," Natalia whispered. "Nothing's gonna be avo-kay."

Hours later. Natalia's office. The Santino Building, twenty-second floor.

She was reviewing quarterly reports with one hand while the other held a double-strength coffee. Her mind, as always, ran on three tracks at once: the first analyzed financial data; the second mentally replayed every piece of gossip she'd picked up at last week's luncheon (her partner's secretary's sister-in-law was pregnant by another man who wasn't her husband); the third — the most dangerous — kept circling back to the image of Branko at that table, saying "I'm not signing anything."

"Why won't he sign?* Natalia thought, frowning at a spreadsheet. *It'd be so easy. I go to my place, he keeps his mansion and his Valeria, and everyone's happy. Well, not me happy, but at least I won't have to look at his perfect face every morning. And my share of the assets stays secure."

Her phone rang.

Natalia looked at it. Unknown number. She ignored it.

It rang again.

She ignored it again.

Third call. She sighed and answered.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Sitik" — a neutral, professional woman's voice — "I'm calling from Kenian Hospital. Your husband has been in a car accident. He has a cerebral contusion. We need you to come as soon as possible."

Natalia let out a breath. Not from concern — that would be showing weakness — but from pure annoyance.

"Fine, I'm on my way," she said.

She hung up. Grabbed her purse. Her assistant, Lila — a twentysomething with the face of someone who'd seen it all — came running after her.

"Ma'am, we have a meeting in twenty minutes with the Koreans, and you said this—"

Natalia raised her hand. Lila went silent instantly.

"Postpone everything to tomorrow," Natalia said, striding toward the elevator like a queen. "My future ex-husband is in the hospital. It wouldn't look good if I kept negotiating while he's dying on a gurney."

"Dying?" Lila asked, alarmed.

"I was exaggerating. But the point stands." Natalia stepped into the elevator and, before the doors closed, added: "Pull up the shared log. I want to know what caused his accident. Call me the second you have it."

The doors closed. Lila stood in the hallway, shaking her head.

"What a pair of lunatics," she muttered, and went to postpone the Koreans.

When Natalia arrived at Kenian Hospital, the smell of antiseptic and desperation greeted her. She crossed the hallways at a brisk pace, ignoring nurses who tried to give her directions. She'd already located the room by the number they gave her: 412.

She walked in without knocking.

Branko was sitting up in bed. He had a bandage on his head — white, enormous, ridiculous — and some bruises on his face. The purple gave him a dangerous look, like a boxer after a fight. His white shirt was stained with dried blood. And still, goddamn it, he was the most attractive man Natalia had ever laid eyes on.

That infuriated her even more.

"How do you feel," Natalia said, closing the door. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"Like I've been in an accident," Branko answered, voice flat.

Natalia took a seat in the plastic chair next to the bed. Crossed her legs. Looked at him.

"Well, this idiot had clowns for breakfast,* her mind thought, already running wild on its own. *How does he manage to be this ridiculously handsome even with a bandage on his head? He looks like a model for an organ donation campaign." Donate your liver, look like this man.""

Branko blinked.

"But that's all he is,* Natalia continued in her thoughts, unaware that he could hear her. *Handsome. Without intelligence. Who crashes on the same day his wife asks for a divorce? A genius, no doubt."

Branko stared at her. Too intently.

"What?" Natalia asked out loud. "Are you staring because your head hurts, or because you got lost in my gorgeous eyes?"

"Excuse me?" he said.

"God, even when he's confused he's pretty,* she thought. *I'd strangle him with my purse strap if he weren't so banged up. Then again, maybe that'd make him more attractive. I'm a lost cause."

Branko opened his mouth. Closed it. His gray eyes had gone enormous.

"Is something wrong?" Natalia asked out loud. "Did the concussion hit your mouth? Because you're making the same face as a fish out of water."

"No," Branko said, his voice strange, as if he'd seen a ghost. "Nothing's wrong."

"He's lying,* she thought. *He lies all the time. Just like when he says Valeria is" just a friend."I wish the hit had been harder. Maybe then he'd have lost his memory and forgotten about her. And while he was at it, forgotten about me too. Same difference."

Branko brought a hand to his bandage, as if it itched. Or as if he needed to hold himself up.

Natalia's phone buzzed with a message. She glanced at it absently.

Lila: "Ma'am, the cause of the accident: he was on the phone at the time of impact. Records show he was on a call with the contact 'Valeria AP' when the crash happened. Need anything else?"

Natalia looked up from the phone and met Branko's eyes with a smile that didn't reach hers.

"You know what?" she said out loud, with that terrifying calm only she could pull off. "It's funny how the universe works. A person can be talking on the phone with their friend, perfectly relaxed, trusting the road is safe, and then suddenly... boom. Life reminds you that decisions have consequences."

Branko went pale. Not from the accident. From what Natalia had just thought a second before speaking:

"Well, well. So he crashed while talking to his precious mistress. Ha. And then he says they're" just friends."Friends who make you wreck your car. I didn't know friendship was this dangerous. I hope Valeria has good insurance."

Branko opened and closed his mouth without knowing what to do. Or what to say. Because he could hear his wife's thoughts. Or he was hallucinating from the cerebral contusion. Or he'd gone insane.

All three options were horrifying.

"Are you okay?" Natalia asked out loud, with feigned concern. "You've gone white. Want me to call a doctor? Or would you rather I call Valeria? I'm sure she'd come running to wipe the sweat off your forehead. Now that's friendship."

"Take that, bitch,* she thought. *Now swallow that. And I hope your head hurts twice as much."

Branko looked at her. And for the first time in two years of marriage, he didn't know if he wanted to strangle her, kiss her, or lock her in a room just to keep listening to her mind.

He said nothing.

He just smiled.

A small smile, barely a movement of his lips.

And Natalia, seeing that smile, felt a chill run down her spine head to toe.

"Why is he smiling?* she thought, alarmed. *Does he enjoy being told about Valeria? Or is his head so messed up that any stimulus makes him happy? What a weird man. Oh God. I love him. I hate him. I love him. I don't know."

Branko heard every word.

And his smile grew wider.

"I don't want the divorce," he said out loud, with a calm that Natalia found profoundly unsettling.

"Excuse me?" she asked, blinking.

"I. Don't. Want. The divorce."

"Since when?"

"Since now."

Natalia looked at him as if he'd just said penguins could fly.

"You hit your head way too hard," she said. "I'm going to talk to the doctor."

She stood to leave, but Branko's voice stopped her.

"Natalia."

She turned.

Branko was looking at her with an intensity he'd never, ever directed at her before.

"I'm staying with you," he said. "I'm not signing anything. So get used to it."

"But what the hell?* Natalia thought, completely thrown. *Did this man hit his head and turn into an idiot, or did he get possessed? Where's the cold, calculating Branko who didn't even look at me to ask me to pass the salt? Who are you, and what have you done with my husband? I need an exorcist."

Out loud, Natalia just said:

"You're worse off than I thought. I'm calling the doctor."

And she walked out of the room with her heart pounding at a thousand beats per hour.

Inside the room, Branko was left alone. He brought his hand to the bandage. Closed his eyes.

He heard Natalia's footsteps fading away. And then, very faintly, he heard her thought, like a distant echo:

"Oh, Branko. If only you knew I asked for the divorce so I wouldn't die of love every time I see you with her. If only you knew."

Branko opened his eyes.

His smile, this time, was real.

"I already know," he whispered into the pillow. "I already know."

The door to room 412 flew open.

It wasn't a nurse. It wasn't a doctor. It was a slam with earthquake ambitions.

Vladimir Sitik entered first, in his tailored suit, his ebony cane (which he didn't need but used to impose), and his funeral face. Behind him, Ana Sitik, his wife, a handkerchief in her hand and her eyes swollen as if she'd already cried the Dead Sea dry.

"Son!" Ana exclaimed, launching herself at Branko with the agility of a rugby player. "Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Did they do the scans? Did you eat? Where's Natalia? How is it possible she isn't here?"

Branko, trapped between his mother's arms and the bandage on his head, rolled his eyes with a subtlety that had nothing subtle about it.

"Mom, I'm fine," he said, his voice flat. "It was just a bump."

"A bump?" Ana pulled back just an inch to examine the bruise. "Your head is bandaged! You could have a brain hemorrhage! You could've died!"

"But I didn't die."

"You could have!"

Vladimir, from the doorway, cleared his throat. He didn't hug his son. The Sitiks didn't hug. The Sitiks nodded at each other in business meetings.

"The other driver?" Vladimir asked, as if it were an insurance claim and not an accident.

"There was no other driver," Branko said. "I went off the road."

"You went off the road?" Vladimir frowned. "Why?"

Branko was about to answer, but Ana didn't let him.

"Because that woman doesn't take care of him," Ana said, the venom already loaded on her tongue. "Because a real wife would be here, by his side, suffering with him. Where is Natalia?"

"Mom, she went to talk to the doctor," Branko said, rubbing his temple. His head hurt. He wasn't sure if it was the concussion or his mother.

"The doctor?" Ana scoffed. "She should be here. With you. Taking care of you. She's your wife!"

"Sometimes wives talk to doctors," Branko said, with the patience of an ant. "It's not a crime."

"It's a lack of respect," Ana declared, crossing her arms. "I always knew. That woman doesn't love you. She never loved you. She's using you for the company and nothing else."

Branko didn't respond. Not because he agreed, but because he'd just remembered Natalia's words that morning: "Valeria's back. I don't want to be cheated on."

And then, as if fate were a bad joke, the door opened again.

Natalia walked in with the doctor. Dr. Mendez, a man in his fifties, with thick-framed glasses and the face of someone who'd seen too many things in the ER.

"The CT results look good," the doctor was saying, reading from a chart. "Just a minor contusion. I'd recommend complete rest for one week and—"

"How is that woman taking care of my son?" Ana interrupted, springing to her feet like a jack-in-the-box.