Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"He did what?" Nico shouts.
After Will told me he needed space, I made the decision to leave. I couldn't stay in that house with him—not after what I saw. So I packed a bag with just enough for a few days, sent Nico a quick text to say I was coming over, and walked away from the man I love. The man I thought was my forever. The man I'm no longer sure is mine at all.
I don't know how to feel. Part of me is furious—burning, bitterly angry. Not just because he broke our vows and slept with someone else, but because he brought her into our home. Into our bed. And instead of facing the truth or owning what he did, he chose the coward's way out: a distraction. A lie. All of this—this heartbreak, this wreckage—could've been avoided if he'd just told me the truth.
The other part of me is shattered. The thought of him with her—his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, being inside of her—makes me physically sick. The betrayal alone is enough, but knowing it wasn't a one-time mistake... knowing it's been going on, that there might be feelings involved? That's a different kind of pain. But what breaks me most is the complete lack of respect. For me. For us. For the vows we took just five months ago. Because without trust and respect, what even is a marriage?
"Can I stay here for a few days?"
"You know you don't need to ask." He opens his front door wider and gives me a soft smile. "Get in here."
"Thanks."
I walk through the door and drop my bag, and as soon as I do, he wraps his long arms around me and pulls me into his chest. I grip the back of his t-shirt in my fists, breathing in his comforting scent of pine and laundry detergent, and let out a shaky sigh.
Nico Simone is the first person I met when I moved to New York. I was eighteen and fresh out of a small suburb in North Carolina, and after he saved me from a near death experience, we went for coffee and started talking. It was like I'd known him my whole life. We're different in so many ways, but he's the balance in my life when I need it, and the brother I never had.
"What can I do?" he asks. "Do you want me to kick his ass? Fuck up that perfect face of his? Oh! I could ask Dean at Manhattan Mocha to put MiraLAX in his morning coffee so he shits his pants in the middle of an important meeting or a trial. That could be fun."
That gets a laugh out of me as I rest my chin on his chest and look into his familiar, light-brown eyes. "Tell me you have alcohol."
"What kind of question is that?" He stares at me adoringly and kisses the tip of my nose. "Put your stuff in your room and I'll pour you something strong. I already ordered dinner. Sloan's going to pick it up on her way home."
"You're my hero."
"And don't you forget it," he responds, smirking.
Nico is a trust fund kid from Manhattan. His father, an anesthesiologist at New York Presbyterian, moved the family to the city when Nico was young. He grew up in private schools, wore designer clothes, and inherited a fortune from his grandfather, a successful investment mogul. His parents locked the money in a trust until he turned twenty-two.
