Chapter 3

But I couldn't.

I knew that in that moment, any pity, any sympathy, would only make it worse for him.

So I did what I imagined a shrewd businesswoman would do. I pulled up the cleverest smile I could manage and said, "Because I want to take a gamble.

Solomon Delgado, you've always wondered why I clawed my way up so desperately. It's because I wanted you. And now the chance has come."

I paused, then laid out my terms one word at a time.

"I'll have Sam Fox pour capital into Delgado Group and get you through this. And you—you marry me."

I'll never forget the way he looked at me then.

Shock, disbelief, and then a cold that went to the bone. Disappointment.

As if I had shattered the image he'd held of a soft, kind Dorothy who needed protecting, and exposed the ugliest, most calculating core underneath.

"Dorothy," he said, laughing at himself, his voice broken and hoarse, "I really did underestimate you."

In that moment, I felt my own heart break along with his words.

The next day was the weekend, and for once I slept in.

When I woke, the space beside me was already empty, the sheets gone cool. Solomon had clearly left long ago.

On the nightstand sat a cup of warm water, and beside it a tube of ointment.

It took me a moment to remember the foot I'd hurt when the door caught it the night before.

I looked down. My ankle was mottled purple and a little swollen.

Something turned over in me, hard to name, like a sour green plum slowly dissolving on the tongue.

He clearly loathed me, yet he still remembered my injury.

That kind of contradictory tenderness is the most fatal of all.

As I rubbed in the ointment, I told myself, mocking myself, that it was probably just part of his duty as a contract husband, and I was reading too much into it.

My phone chimed. A message from my best friend, Kathryn James.

A screenshot, plus a row of furious stickers.

[Kathryn: Dot! Look at this! Meg Swanson's up to her tricks again! I'm furious! Does she literally have to make your life miserable to keep breathing?!]

I opened the screenshot. Another one of Meg's posts.

This time it was a selfie. She wore a plain, elegant white dress, seated in what looked like an upscale cafe, a latte with delicate foam art in front of her.

Her makeup was soft, her eyes wide with innocence and hurt. The caption read: "Some things aren't yours. Even if you scheme your way into having them, you'll lose them in the end. The string of a kite has to be held by the right hands to fly higher."

Below it, someone had commented: "Don't cry, Meg. We all know who the right one is."

Meg had replied with a hug emoji.

Anyone with eyes could see who she was talking about.

Me. The wicked woman who "schemed her way" into stealing her "kite."

Kathryn's call came through right after, her voice going a mile a minute. "Dot, did you see it? This little snake keeps leveling up! She's basically declaring war on you out in the open! What are you going to do?"

Kathryn is one of the few friends I have. We grew up together in the countryside, and later, after I was brought back to the Fox family, she worked her way into a university in Ashford City and stayed on here.

She's hot-tempered and fiercely loyal, and she can't stand to see anyone wrong me.

"It's fine," I said mildly, no real feeling in my voice. "She's just a fly buzzing around. Swatting her would only dirty my hand."

"But it's so disgusting! She's basically calling you a home-wrecker who schemed her way up! And that so-called husband of yours just stands there and lets her bully you? Is he blind?" Kathryn was livid.

I smiled but didn't answer.

Blind?

No. Solomon sees it more clearly than anyone.

He just doesn't care.

If anything, he probably enjoys the arrangement.

On one side, the first love he keeps in his heart, soft and innocent and pitiful. On the other, the contract wife he loathes, spiteful and jealous and repulsive.

Set side by side, the contrast only highlights his "devotion" to Meg and his "helplessness" with me.

What a fine tragic little melodrama.

"All right, stop stewing. I've got an appointment with my stylist today, going to get my hair done. Want to come?" I changed the subject.

"Get your hair done? You're in the mood for that?" Kathryn's voice climbed.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, swinging my legs off the bed as I spoke into the phone. "Even if the sky falls, I'll hold it up looking gorgeous. Besides, the sky hasn't fallen yet."

I hung up, changed, and did my makeup with care.

The woman in the mirror had bright eyes and clean teeth, lips red as fire, a champagne-colored slip dress tracing every curve of her figure just right.

Not a trace left of the hysterical madwoman from the night before.

I got into my red Porsche and drove straight to the Summit Club, Ashford City's most exclusive private club.

The place was members only, intensely private, the favorite haunt of the city's wealthy wives and socialites.

As it happened, Meg had also arranged to have afternoon tea there today.

When I arrived, she was sitting by the windows on the ground floor with a few socialites, deep in cheerful conversation.

When they saw me come in, the women's expressions turned awkward, and the air went quiet at once.

Meg, though, recovered fast. A gentle, gracious smile spread across her face, and she rose to come toward me.

"Dot, what a coincidence. Are you here for tea too?" She linked her arm through mine, warm as if we were sisters who went back years.

I didn't pull away. I just looked at her, the smile not quite reaching my eyes. "Not a coincidence. I came to see you."

Meg's smile stiffened, then smoothed over just as quickly. "See me? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing major." I took my phone out of my bag, pulled up that post of hers, and held it in front of her. "I just wanted to ask you, Miss Swanson—was this post of yours aimed at me?"

I didn't raise my voice, but it was enough for the nearby tables to hear.

Every gaze in the room snapped to us at once.

Meg's face went white in an instant. She glanced nervously around and tried hard to tug me aside, dropping her voice. "Dot, you've misunderstood, I didn't mean anything by it... Let's go talk over there, all right?"

"We'll talk right here." I didn't budge. I even raised my voice. "I'm not clever like you, Miss Swanson. I can't quote poetry and go on about kites and strings and all that. So just give me a straight answer—do you think I stole Solomon Delgado from you?"