Only someone awake.
Julian believed power was the thing everyone could see: the cars, the magazine covers, the yacht photographs, the man raising champagne beneath the Monaco sun.
I had spent my life learning something different.
Real power was often hidden inside boring documents, remembered signatures, preserved evidence, and the ability to stay still while someone arrogant explained exactly how they intended to betray you.
On the morning Sienna sent those photographs, Julian thought he was returning Sunday night to the same wife, the same house, the same fortune, and the same fifteen cars waiting beneath glass.
He returned to an empty garage.
And for the first time in our marriage, the emptiness belonged to me.
