The crystal shards glittered in the morning light like scattered diamonds.

I stepped over the mess, walking barefoot to the kitchen to make myself an espresso—no milk, no sugar. Just pure bitterness, the taste of being awake.

My phone sat on the counter, as silent as a stone. Without a SIM card, it was just a pretty piece of metal.

At nine in the morning, I heard a key turning frantically in the lock.

I was sitting at the dining table, reading an internal email from Sterling Law—an encrypted file Arthur had sent at six this morning, titled *Thorne Divorce: Preliminary Strategy*.

I didn’t look up when I heard the sound, just closed my laptop halfway.

Julian burst in.

He looked like hell. His expensive cashmere sweater was wrinkled like a dishrag, there were dark circles under his eyes, and a layer of stubble covered his jaw.

Those eyes, once described by Fortune as “able to see through the very essence of stock charts,” were bloodshot and fixed on me.

“Harper,” his voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. “You didn’t answer your phone last night.”

“I was asleep,” I said, sipping my coffee. My tone was as flat as if I were discussing the weather.

He strode over, snatched my phone, and pressed the power button. The black screen reflected his twisted face.

“Why was it off? Why would you say that?” He slammed the phone on the table. “The strikes are used up? Harper, there were ninety-nine! How many did I even use? Sixty? Seventy?”

I watched him quietly, suddenly amused.

This man, who could close a billion-dollar merger in three hours, couldn’t remember how many chances he’d burned through.

“Ninety-eight,” I said. “Plus last night when you didn’t come home. That makes ninety-nine.”

Julian froze. His lips moved, as if he were silently counting. Then he shook his head, forcing a smile that was meant to be reassuring.

“See? There’s still one left, right? We still have room. I was wrong last night, but it was an emergency…” He tried to take my hand.

I pulled my arm back and walked towards the living room.

“Where are you going?” he followed, his voice starting to sound panicked.

I didn’t answer. I just bent down and picked up the wedding photo from the shattered glass.

In the picture, a twenty-three-year-old Harper Vance smiled radiantly, nestled against a twenty-five-year-old Julian Thorne. The lights of the Eiffel Tower glowed in the background. He had booked the entire viewing deck to propose, the fee alone enough to buy a couture gown.

“Remember this?” I asked softly.

Julian’s gaze softened for a moment. “Of course. It was the best night of my life.”

“You said,” I turned to face him, holding out the frame, “that our marriage would be stronger than the Eiffel Tower, longer than the Seine.”

He took the frame, his fingertips tracing the cracks in the glass. “We can fix it, Harper. I can…”

“You could have stopped when the first crack appeared,” I cut him off. My voice was quiet, but it sliced through the air like a blade. “Instead of hitting it again and again, until it shattered completely.”

Julian’s face went pale.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The silver-tongued confidence he showed his shareholders was gone, replaced by a kind of childish helplessness.

“Is this because of Chloe?” he finally asked, his voice dry. “There’s nothing between us, Harper. She’s just a young girl who needs guidance. I see her as… like a sister.”

I laughed. A real, audible laugh.

“A sister?” I repeated the word, tasting it like something new and strange. “Julian, do you go to your ‘sister’s’ apartment at three in the morning because she says she’s scared? Do you buy your ‘sister’ a three-thousand-dollar cashmere shawl because she sneezed in the office? Do you force your wife to get drunk with an investor just to cover up your ‘sister’s’ mistake?”

With every question, his face grew paler.

“That’s not…” he tried to defend himself, but he couldn’t find the words.

“It’s cheating,” I finished for him, my tone as calm as a legal statement. “Maybe it hasn’t gotten physical—I don’t care. An emotional affair, betrayal, public humiliation of your spouse… in a New York divorce court, that’s more than enough grounds for ‘cruel and inhuman treatment.’”

Julian staggered back, bumping into the console table. The Cartier clock on it wobbled, its hands stopped at 3:17 AM—the time he’d left last night.

“You can’t… we have a prenup.” He clung to the words like a lifeline. “You won’t get much.”

“Oh, that.” I walked to the study, pulled a document from the printer, and handed it to him. “Arthur Sterling sent this revised draft this morning. Based on your repeated appearances with Chloe at business functions, public degradation of your spouse, and last night’s incident of forcing your wife to consume alcohol, potentially causing health damages—by the way, my IVF cycle is ruined because of it, the medical report is right here—we have ample reason to argue the agreement is invalid.”

Julian’s fingers trembled. He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the dense legal jargon. “Invalid? That’s impossible…”

“It’s possible.” I took a step closer, looking up at him. “And I’ll get 15% of Thorne Capital—the shares you insisted on giving me back then to show your sincerity. Plus the division of marital assets, it’s about… eighty million? Ninety? Arthur is still running the numbers.”

He stopped breathing.

Eighty million dollars. A number big enough to cripple him.

“You’ve been playing me,” he hissed, his expression shifting from helpless to furious. “All these years, you acted like the perfect, docile wife, just for this moment?”

I shook my head, suddenly exhausted.

“Julian, I truly loved you. I loved you enough to turn down a partnership at Sterling, loved you enough to endure the daily bruises from hormone shots on my stomach.” I paused, my voice softening. “But love isn’t a bottomless pit. Ninety-nine chances were my limit. And yours.”

“And on the ninety-eighth, you still took it for granted.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it, and his face fell even further.

“Is it Chloe?” I asked.

He gave a stiff nod. “The company… there’s something.”

“Go, then.” I turned towards the bedroom. “Your ‘sister’ is waiting.”

“Harper!” he called after me.

But I didn’t look back.