Chapter 1

Our fiftieth cold war, and out of pure spite I listed everything Oliver Henson had given me over the years on a resale app.

The guy who came to appraise it looked for a long time, then couldn't help laughing.

"Ma'am, it's Balenciaga, not Balenciahga. It's Versace, not Versacce. And this one, it's Gucci, not Guccii..."

I stared blankly at those clumsy, ridiculous knockoff spellings. Because I trusted him, I hadn't looked closely once in eight whole years.

He gave me a pitying look.

"These don't even make the bottom rung of the cheap fakes. All ten boxes, three hundred, tops."

I clutched those three crumpled hundred-dollar bills and went to find Oliver.

In the private room, he had just casually cracked open a bottle of red wine.

"This Romanée-Conti, five point two million. To celebrate your promotion."

Jeanette Matthews covered her lips with a sweet little laugh. "Mr. Henson, that's too extravagant!"

"You're worth it."

One of the guys beside him spotted me and raised his voice on purpose.

"Oliver, seriously, it's been eight years. You really never thought about marrying Anita Barnes?"

Oliver swirled the wine in his glass and smiled.

"Marry her? A fool who can't even tell real from fake, and she's fit to be Mrs. Henson?"

"Just a bit of fun. Don't tell me someone actually took it seriously."

Eight years of trust and waiting collapsed into rubble in those three words: just a bit of fun.

All at once I saw it clearly. He had never loved me.

...

Someone in the room whistled.

"Well, look who's here. Anita's back?"

Oliver lifted his eyelids and spoke, flat and cool.

"Here already? And I thought you had some backbone."

"How long did this cold war last? Forty-eight hours? Anita, you set a new record."

Someone egged him on. "Oliver, look at Anita's face. She's obviously been missing you like crazy."

"No kidding. Fight or no fight, when has Anita not been the first to cave?"

I clenched my fist, took a step forward, and slapped the three hundred dollars down on the table.

"Eight years of gifts. Three hundred dollars, all of it."

"How did I not know the great Oliver Henson had fallen on such hard times?"

Jeanette spoke up, all smiles.

"Anita, selling things? Oliver casually opens a bottle of wine for me and it's five million. You're his girlfriend. If you're short on cash, just say so, right?"

Oliver glanced down at the three hundred dollars and gave a small twist of his mouth.

"Anita, you're funny."

"Fighting until you're selling things off. Don't tell me this time you actually plan to draw a line between us?"

A few of the guys beside him laughed.

"Anita, we figured out those bags of yours were fake ages ago. Every time you carried one out, we'd all duck our heads and pretend to check our phones so we wouldn't crack up."

"Eight years. We had a private bet going on when you'd finally notice. Somebody said three months, somebody a year, the longest bet was three years. And you held out a full eight. Not one of us won."

Jeanette reached over and tugged at my sleeve.

"Don't be mad, Anita. Sit down, have a drink, cool off."

She added with a smile,

"Though since all your luxury stuff is fake, maybe you need fake wine too, to match?"

The room burst out laughing.

Oliver drew slowly on his cigarette and said nothing.

I finally steadied my breathing, looked Oliver in the eye, and said it word by word.

"Oliver, you gave me fakes. Was it because you didn't know the difference, or because you thought I didn't deserve the real thing?"

His eyes finally flickered with a hint of impatience, and he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

"The wine I casually order runs five million. You think I, Oliver Henson, can't even afford the genuine article?"

Suddenly it struck me as funny, funny enough that the back of my throat turned bitter.

Those clumsy knockoff spellings, that offhand tone of his, were the answer all by themselves.

What more was there for me to humiliate myself over?

"What?" He looked up at me. "Can't tell real from fake, and now you turn around and question me?"

I looked into those eyes I'd once drowned in. Now there was nothing left in them but cold, thin mockery.

"So." I set my teeth and bit off each word. "You did it on purpose."

"So from the very beginning, you never once thought about marrying me."

Oliver idly rolled the three hundred dollars between his fingers, then let go.

The pink bills drifted lightly down to the floor.

He stood, looking down at me from above.

His shadow fell over me completely, his breath, reeking of wine, hitting my face.

The thing that once made my heart race now only made me sick of it.

"What else did you think?"

He reached out and patted my cheek.

"Anita, are you fit to use the real thing?"

"A useless thing I've kept, spoiled, who can't even tell a real bag from a fake, and she's fit to be Mrs. Henson?"

I tipped my head back and forced the tears welling in my eyes back down.

"I'm not fit."

"So the position of Mrs. Henson, I won't be craving it anymore."

"Save it for whoever you think is fit."

I turned and walked toward the door.

The summer rainstorm slammed into the ground and kicked up a white haze of spray.

I had no umbrella, and I didn't look back.