At our final wedding planning lunch in Manhattan I made the mistake of telling the waitress my future husband hated olives and could she please take them away, and Ethan turned to me with that cold, polished charm he used on everyone and said in a low, dangerous voice: Don’t ever call me your future husband again—we’re only engaged, don’t make it sound so final.

I opened the letter in my office, late one night, the city lights glowing outside my window.

His handwriting was the same.

Neat.

Polished.

Cold.

Clara,

I hope this letter finds you well. I heard the stock hit a new high last week. Congratulations. You always were smarter than I gave you credit for.

I know you think you won. I know you think you’ve destroyed me. That I’m going to rot in this cell for the rest of my life, while you live in your penthouse, run your company, play happy family with your reporter boyfriend.

But you’re wrong.

You see, I always have a backup plan.

You think you destroyed all the photos? You think you destroyed all the tapes?

I made copies.

Lots of copies.

Stored in a dozen different places, with a dozen different people. All set to be released to every media outlet in the world on the first anniversary of my arrest.

Unless you do exactly what I say.

Here’s what you’re going to do.

You’re going to deposit 50 million dollars into a bank account in the Cayman Islands. The routing number is below.

You’re going to use your connections to get me a presidential pardon.

You’re going to announce that you lied about the embezzlement. That Arthur was the only one responsible. That I was an innocent victim. That you’re going to remarry me the second I get out.

You have 30 days.

If you don’t do every single thing on this list?

The photos go out.

The tape of your mother goes out.

And I’ve got something else.

Something even better.

A recording of your father, admitting he knew about James Carter’s embezzlement in 2006, and let him go to cover up his own tax fraud. Enough to put him in prison for the rest of his life. Enough to destroy Voss Global forever.

Tick tock, Clara.

You know I always follow through on my threats.

See you soon.

Forever yours,

Ethan

I put the letter down.

My hands were shaking.

He was right.

He always had a backup plan.

I should have known.

I should have killed him when I had the chance.

I picked up the phone.

Called Javi.

“Get over here,” I said. “Now. We have a problem.”

20 minutes later, he was in my office, reading the letter, his face hard.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. “I should have known he’d have copies.”

He paused, thinking.

“Wait,” he said. “He said he has a recording of your dad. Admitting to tax fraud in 2006. If that’s real, why didn’t he use it before? Why wait until now?”

I thought about it.

“Because it’s not real,” I said, slowly. “If he’d had it, he would have used it at the board meeting. He would have used it to blackmail us before we arrested him. He’s bluffing. About the recording. And probably about the photos and the tape too. He’s desperate. He’s in prison. He has nothing. He’s just trying to scare us.”

“Or,” Javi said, “he’s telling the truth. And we can’t risk it.”

We sat in silence for a long time.

Then I smiled.

Cold.

Cruel.

The same smile my grandmother used to wear.

“I have a better idea,” I said.

The next day, I went to visit Ethan in prison.

He sat across from me, behind the glass, wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hair cut short, a bruise on his jaw. He looked smaller. Meaner.

But his eyes were still the same.

Cold.

Dead.

“Clara,” he said, smiling into the phone. “I knew you’d come. You always do the smart thing.”

“Cut the crap, Ethan,” I said. “I’m not giving you 50 million. I’m not getting you a pardon. And I’m sure as hell not marrying you. I came here to tell you that I know you’re bluffing. There are no copies. There’s no recording. You have nothing. You’re just a sad, pathetic man in a cell, trying to feel powerful again.”

His smile faded.

“You think I’m bluffing?” he said. “I’ll send everything tomorrow. I’ll destroy you. Your whole family—”

“Go ahead,” I said.

He froze.

“What?” he said.

“Send them,” I said. “Send the photos. Send the tape. Send whatever else you think you have. I don’t care anymore.”

I leaned closer to the glass.

“You think a few naked photos are going to ruin me?” I said. “I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company. I’m the woman who took down you and your dad and Arthur Hale. The press will call me a victim. They’ll call me brave. The stock will go up. And my mom? She’s already told my dad everything. He forgave her. The family is stronger than ever. Your stupid tape won’t hurt anyone. And as for the recording of my dad? It’s fake. Everyone will know it’s fake. You’ll just look even more pathetic. Desperate. A liar. No one will believe a word you say ever again.”

I smiled.

“So go ahead,” I said. “Send it. I dare you. Because the second you do? I’m going to add extortion charges to your list. Another 20 years. You’ll never get out of here. You’ll die in this cell. Alone. Forgotten. And no one will ever even remember your name.”

I stood up to leave.

“Wait!” he yelled, slamming his hand on the glass. “Wait! I’m not bluffing! I have the copies! I’ll send them! I swear to God—”

I looked at him, one last time.

“No you won’t,” I said. “Because you’re a coward. You always have been. You hide behind blackmail and lies and other people’s work. You’ve never had the guts to do anything real. And you never will.”

I hung up the phone.

I walked out of the prison, into the bright sun, Javi waiting for me by the car.

“How did it go?” he said.

“Perfect,” I said. “He’s bluffing. He has nothing. He’s just scared.”

Javi grinned.

“I knew you had it in you,” he said.

We got in the car.

“Where to?” he said.

I thought for a second.

“Home,” I said. “I’m tired. And I want to see my family. And then I want to go to dinner. Just us. No more drama. No more threats. Just… us.”

He kissed me.

“Sounds perfect,” he said.

Thirty days came and went.

No photos.

No tapes.

No recording.

Ethan never sent anything.

He was a coward.

Just like I said.

A year later, we were back at the Rosewood Club.

The same private dining room.

Beneath my grandmother’s portrait.

But this time, it was different.

Dad was there, in his wheelchair, getting stronger every day.

Mom was there, laughing, holding his hand.

Brooke was there, talking to Javi about a new fundraiser for the foundation.

And I was there.

Standing at the head of the table, holding a glass of champagne.

Everyone went quiet.

“A year ago today,” I said, “I sat in this very room, and I thought my life was over. I thought I’d lost everything. The man I loved. My family’s company. My reputation. I thought I’d never be happy again.”

I looked at Javi.

He smiled at me.

“But I was wrong,” I said. “Because sometimes, the worst things that happen to us are actually the best. Because they show us who we really are. They show us who our real friends are. They show us how strong we can be when we have to be. I lost a liar. But I found my best friend again. I found my family. And I found myself.”

I raised my glass.

“To new beginnings,” I said. “To second chances. And to never, ever letting anyone make you feel small again.”

Everyone cheered.

We clinked glasses.

I looked up at my grandmother’s portrait.

She was smiling.

I knew she’d be proud.

Outside, the Manhattan sun was setting, painting the sky pink and gold.