Chapter 1

November 23, 2023. Thanksgiving Eve. The Upper East Side.

The night over Manhattan always possessed a deceptive sort of gentleness. Viewed from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse at 740 Park Avenue, Central Park resembled a vast swatch of black velvet, cradled cautiously in the palms of the glittering skyscrapers that surrounded it.

Vivian stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of her dress for the final time. It was a vintage black velvet Dior gown. Ten years ago—the year they were married—Alexander had won it for her at an auction in Paris. Back then, he had said that black best complemented her eyes, which he claimed were as deep as a lake without end.

Today was their tenth wedding anniversary.

The long dining table was already set. It wasn't the ostentatious display typical of the nouveau riche, but rather possessed a specific, artistic refinement unique to Vivian. Aromatherapy candles flickered in silver candelabras, and the air was diffused with the faint scent of leather and tobacco—Alexander's favorite notes.

The wall clock indicated it was seven-thirty in the evening.

Vivian walked to the kitchen and checked the oven. The Beef Wellington inside was cooked to perfection. She had spent the entire afternoon preparing it, refusing to let the housekeeper, Maria, intervene. In New York, provided one was willing to pay, one could easily have a three-star Michelin chef come to the door, but Vivian stubbornly held onto the belief that a tenth-anniversary dinner should be crafted by the wife’s own hands.

It was an ancient, clumsy form of romance that seemed particularly laughable in this city where efficiency reigned supreme.

Her phone vibrated on the empty marble countertop.

Vivian’s heart skipped a beat. She picked up the device; the screen displayed "Alexander."

There was no call, only a text message.

"Emergency with the merger. Must wrap it up tonight. Partners are all here. Sorry, honey. Eat without me. Love you."

Brief, efficient, impeccable. Even that "Love you" felt like an auto-reply template.

Vivian stared at the screen, her fingers hovering in mid-air, as if she wanted to type a reply. Perhaps "Today is our tenth anniversary," or "I cooked all afternoon." But in the end, she typed nothing.

She slowly set the phone down. The screen faded to black, reflecting her pale face and that magnificent black velvet dress.

In this household, Alexander's work always came first. He was Wall Street's top M&A attorney; his time was billed by the minute, and his every decision influenced the flow of hundreds of millions of dollars. By comparison, a housewife's dinner did indeed seem insignificant.

Vivian walked to the dining table and sat in the seat that belonged to the mistress of the house.

Opposite her was an empty chair.

She poured herself a glass of red wine. The dark crimson liquid swayed in the crystal goblet, resembling some form of coagulated blood.

"Happy tenth anniversary, Vivian." She raised her glass to the empty chair, her voice so soft it sounded like a sigh.

She took a sip. The wine was smooth, the tannins elegant, yet as it slid down her throat, it carried an indescribable bitterness.

She cut a small piece of the beef and placed it in her mouth. The puff pastry was perfect, the mushroom duxelles rich, the filet mignon tender and juicy. It was a culinary masterpiece, yet she could taste absolutely nothing, as if she were chewing on a sponge soaked in seawater.

The apartment was too quiet. This wasn't tranquility; it was a massive, oppressive void. It pressed down from the vaulted ceilings, seeped up from the expensive Persian rugs, and wrapped itself tightly around her.

Suddenly, she felt a wave of nausea.

Vivian set down her knife and fork. The metal struck the porcelain plate with a sharp *clink* that echoed through the cavernous dining room, startlingly loud.

She stood up, her movements somewhat hurried, nearly knocking over her wine glass. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out at the brilliantly lit Manhattan.

There were countless lights out there, and beneath every light, there were people. People laughing, people arguing, people embracing. Yet here she was, in one of the city's most expensive residences, possessing wealth and status that others envied, feeling like a specimen trapped in a glass jar.

She recalled ten years ago, when Alexander had proposed to her under the Brooklyn Bridge. Back then, his eyes saw only her. He had said, "Vivian, I will give you the best of everything in the world."

He had certainly done that. He gave her the best house, the best cars, the best jewelry.

But the one thing he took away was himself.

Her phone vibrated again. Vivian turned her head instinctively, thinking he had changed his mind.

But no. It was an Instagram notification.

She had intended to swipe it away, but her finger, as if possessed by a ghost, slid across the screen instead.

It was a Story posted by a fashion blogger she followed, tagged at "The Grill" in Midtown Manhattan—currently the favorite celebration spot for Wall Street elites.

In the video, the camera panned across a lively banquet hall. Champagne towers, cigar smoke, and a crowd of men in suits.

At the very edge of the frame, present for only a flash, less than a second.

Vivian pressed her finger to the screen, freezing the image.

She saw Alexander. He was holding a glass of champagne, his face radiant with a conqueror's smile she hadn't seen in a long time.

And standing beside him was a woman in a tight red dress.

It was Scarlett. Alexander's chief associate, a wildly ambitious, young, beautiful Harvard Law graduate.

Scarlett's hand was resting naturally on Alexander's arm. That posture wasn't the deference of a subordinate to a superior; it was an intimacy that declared sovereignty.

Vivian felt the blood in her body freeze in that instant.

Not out of anger, but from a bone-deep chill.

So, the so-called "emergency" was a victory party.

So, their tenth anniversary wasn't worth as much as the carnival of a successful merger.

She looked at Alexander's smile in the photo. That smile was so blinding, so unfamiliar. He looked happy—a kind of happiness she never saw at home.

Vivian's hands began to tremble. She slammed the phone face-down onto the table as if it were a burning coal.

She turned around, looking at the table full of carefully prepared dishes, looking at the flickering candlelight.

How was this a home? This was clearly a magnificent mausoleum. And she was merely the living dead tasked with guarding it.

Suddenly, she made a decision.

She blew out the candles.

Darkness instantly swallowed the dining room.

Vivian didn't clear the table, didn't pour out the wine, and didn't change out of the expensive gown. She simply walked into the studio, the sanctuary that belonged to her, a place Alexander rarely set foot in.

From the bottom of a drawer, she dug out a business card.

The card was pure white, featuring only simple black text:

*Lee Yun-jin, Esq.*

*Family Law & Divorce Attorney*

It had been given to her six months ago by a woman she met by chance at a charity gala. At the time, the sharp-eyed Asian lawyer had looked at her and said meaningfully, "If one day you want to find yourself again, call me."

Vivian had felt offended at the time and had tossed the card into the drawer.

But now, this card felt like the only piece of driftwood in the dark.

She picked up her phone and dialed the number.

The call was answered after two rings.

"This is Lee Yun-jin." The voice was calm, professional, and carried a hint of anticipated composure.

"This is Vivian." Her voice was trembling, yet every word was crystal clear. "I want to retain you to draft a divorce agreement."

"Very well, Mrs. Hamilton."

"No," Vivian said, looking out at the pitch-black night sky as tears finally slid down her face. "Call me Vivian. Just Vivian."