Chapter 1

I ripped the ninety-ninth strike card to shreds.

Not elegantly. Not with ceremony. I dug my nails into the edge, like tearing open a letter that held my fate, and ripped with all my might. I listened to the sharp sound of paper fibers tearing apart—a sound more real than any broken vow.

The pieces scattered across the marble floor of our Upper East Side apartment, mixing with the shattered glass of the wedding photo I’d thrown an hour ago. The gold foil letters, “Strike 99,” glinted coldly in the light.

In baseball, three strikes and you’re out.

I gave him thirty-three innings.

And he couldn’t even finish one.

My finger hovered over my phone’s screen. Three words were already typed out:

【I want a divorce.】

Before I could hit send, I heard a car engine outside. Julian was back.

But it was too late.

***

Twelve hours ago, I thought today would be like any other day in the last five years—spent in quiet tolerance, finding comfort in numbers.

I even practiced my smile in the mirror. Tonight was the victory party for Thorne Capital. They’d closed the 1.2-billion-dollar project on the East Side. Julian would need me by his side, the perfect CEO’s wife.

I put on the beige Armani dress—conservative, elegant, designed not to steal the show.

As I did my makeup, the woman in the mirror looked calm. Only I knew about the dull ache from the bruise on my stomach.

Day eight of my third IVF cycle.

This morning’s hormone shot had been particularly painful. The nurse said my veins were fragile, prone to bruising.

The doctor’s words echoed in my head: “This cycle is critical, Harper. No alcohol, no caffeine, and avoid stress.”

I’d texted those words to Julian.

He replied with a single word: “Got it.”

Then, silence.

***

The ballroom at the Four Seasons was packed.

Under the crystal chandeliers, Julian stood by the champagne tower, accepting congratulations from investors. He held a microphone, his smile flashing under the lights—the kind of smile that made Fortune magazine photographers go wild.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, my own glass of champagne untouched. Someone had handed it to me, but I was just holding it, like a prop.

“Harper!”

Chloe Miller shrieked as she rushed towards me. She was Julian’s executive assistant. Yale grad, twenty-three, wearing a Self-Portrait dress that was a little too tight, teetering on stilettos that were a little too high for the marble floor.

And then, everything went into slow motion.

Her elbow hit the champagne tower.

The top layer of six crystal coupes wobbled.

The second layer of twelve began to tilt.

A golden waterfall of Krug champagne cascaded down, splashing all over Mr. Lawton—the Texas oil tycoon who had just promised an additional fifty million in funding.

His Tom Ford suit was soaked. His white shirt turned transparent.

Lawton’s face went from red to purple. “Julian! What the hell is this!”

The room fell silent. Three hundred pairs of eyes turned to Julian.

I thought he would apologize. I thought he would have his PR team handle it. I thought he would pull Chloe aside and tear her a new one.

Instead, he did this: he shielded Chloe behind him, then turned to me.

“Harper,” his voice was low, laced with pressure and annoyance, “go fix this.”

I froze. I was his wife, and the former Chief Legal Counsel of his company—until he’d “suggested” I “focus on our family for a while”—but I wasn’t his crisis manager.

“What are you waiting for?” he pressed, mouthing the words at me. “Lawton is furious. Go have a drink with him. Use a strike.”

*Use a strike.*

Whispers slithered through the crowd.

“Poor Harper…”

“Julian is getting worse…”

“I bet he’s sleeping with that assistant…”

Every glance was a mix of pity and scorn.

My fingers instinctively counted in my head.

How many cards were left?

Ninety-seven were gone.

This was number ninety-eight.

I tightened my grip on my glass, my knuckles turning white. I plastered a flawless smile on my face and walked towards Lawton.

“Mr. Lawton, Thorne Capital apologizes for this evening’s… inconvenience. Please, allow me to express our sincerity with this drink.”

The oil tycoon snorted and shoved a full bottle of bourbon in front of me. “Sincerity has to be measured, Mrs. Thorne. Bottoms up.”

I raised my glass. In my peripheral vision, I saw Julian whispering in Chloe’s ear, gently tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. The smile on his face was so tender it burned.

The liquor scorched my throat, incinerating the last shred of hope I had left.