“My suitcase is outside, Mariana. You don’t belong in this house anymore.”

The words echoed in my mind as I stood frozen at the gate of our Beverly Hills mansion.

One trembling hand rested protectively on my stomach while the other clutched a white envelope.

Inside were divorce papers.

My suitcase sat beside the driveway. On top of it were the keys to the house I had called home for eleven years. My husband, Ryan Montgomery, had left them there as casually as someone returning an unwanted purchase.

Laughter drifted through the open front door.

Not nervous laughter.

Not surprised laughter.

The kind of laughter shared by people who believe victory is already theirs.

I looked inside.

Ryan sat comfortably on the leather sofa I had spent weeks choosing when we renovated the house years ago. Beside him sat Vanessa Carter, young, beautiful, and dressed in a striking red dress. She held a glass of wine as though she belonged there.