“Sign it, Claire. Then get out of my son’s house before midnight.”

Back in the Lake Forest mansion, the smell of burning wood mingled with the rich scent of vintage Dom Pérignon.

Margaret Harrington raised her crystal flute, her diamond rings catching the glow of the fire. “To the new era of Harrington Development. And to my brilliant future daughter-in-law.”

Brooke laughed musically, clinking her glass against Margaret’s. “To family, Margaret. The *right* family.”

Ethan stood by the bar, staring at the bottle in his hands. He hadn't touched his glass. His tie was undone, his collar unbuttoned. Every time he looked toward the entryway, he saw Claire standing there in the cold, her eyes devoid of tears. She hadn't begged. She hadn't even cursed him. She had looked at him the way one looks at a stranger on a subway train who had bumped into their shoulder—mildly annoyed, but ultimately insignificant.

It gnawed at his ribs like an ulcer.

“Ethan, darling,” Margaret called out, her tone laced with mild irritation. “Stop sulking by the bar. Come sit with Brooke.”

Ethan walked over slowly, sinking onto the cream sofa next to Brooke. Brooke immediately looped her arm through his, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her perfume was heavy, suffocatingly sweet—nothing like Claire’s subtle scent of rain and almond soap.

“You did the right thing, Ethan,” Brooke murmured, trailing a fingernail along his lapel. “Claire was lovely, but she was an anchor dragging you down. A man in your position needs a partner who can open doors in New York and London. My father’s capital will make you the biggest developer in the city.”

“She didn't take any money,” Ethan said, staring blankly at the coffee table where the divorce papers still lay. “She signed the waiver completely. She didn’t even ask for the Lake Geneva cabin.”

Margaret let out an aristocratic scoff. “Because she knew she had no legal standing! The girl was a parasite, Ethan. She stayed with you for three years enjoying private clubs and towncars, and when she realized the game was up, she tucked her tail between her legs and ran. Don't romanticize her pride. It was shame.”

“Was it?” Ethan muttered. “She knew about the Langham, Mother. She knew about Arthur Sterling’s contract. She knew everything.”

Brooke’s expression tightened for a fraction of a second before softening into an indulgent pout. “Ethan, Lake Forest is a small town. Gossip spreads. The important thing is that the paperwork is filed. My father’s legal team is already submitting the expedited dissolution to the Cook County judge. By tomorrow afternoon, your marriage will be legally dead.”

“And by tomorrow morning at ten,” Margaret added, her eyes gleaming with ruthless ambition, “we announce the Sterling-Harrington merger at the Chicago Athletic Association. The press will be all over it. We’ll drown out any whispers of scandal with headlines about the city’s next power couple.”

Ethan rubbed his face with both hands. “I need some air.”

He stood abruptly and walked out onto the stone terrace, stepping into the freezing drizzle. He leaned against the balustrade, staring into the dark woods that surrounded the estate.

He remembered the day he married Claire. It had been a tiny civil ceremony in a historic chapel. His mother had refused to attend, claiming she was bedridden with a migraine. Claire had worn a simple cream silk dress she had sewn herself. When she had looked up at him, her dark eyes filled with absolute, unconditional devotion, Ethan had felt like the most powerful man on earth.

*“I don’t care about your family’s money, Ethan,”* she had whispered that night in their cheap honeymoon cabin. *“I just want you. Even if we lose everything, we’ll build our own world.”*

And what had he done? When the Lakeview project hit cost overruns, when the banks started threatening foreclosure, his mother had begun dripping poison into his ear every morning. *Look at Brooke Sterling. Look at what a real woman can give you. Claire is a dead weight.*

And he had listened. He had let Brooke touch him in dim hotel lounges. He had sat silently while Margaret insulted Claire at Sunday dinners. He had convinced himself it was all for the business. That it was necessary.

Behind him, the French doors clicked open.

Brooke stepped onto the terrace, holding two fresh glasses of champagne. Her coat was draped over her shoulders, but her smile was sharp.

“You’re thinking about her,” Brooke said. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a warning.

Ethan turned around. “We were together for three years, Brooke.”

“And now it’s over,” Brooke said coldly, stepping closer until her face was inches from his. “Let me make something very clear, Ethan. My father isn't giving your mother seventy-five million dollars out of charity. He’s doing it because I want you, and because I want this name. If you start second-guessing this in front of the press tomorrow, my father pulls the liquidity. And if he pulls the liquidity, Harrington Development files for Chapter 7 bankruptcy by Friday. Do you understand?”

Ethan looked at her. Beneath the tailored elegance, there was no warmth. No tenderness. Only transaction.

“I understand,” Ethan said quietly.

Brooke smiled, satisfied, and pressed her cold lips against his cheek. “Good boy. Go inside and get some sleep. Tomorrow, we take Chicago.”