Chapter 4: The Other Woman

I was a fool—small-town Virginia naive, believing a man like Nathan Brooks could ever truly be mine.

I didn’t find out about his engagement until it was practically public. Isabelle Dubois—French pharmaceutical heiress, Sorbonne grad, everything I wasn’t.

He’d been flying to France for a year, first-class or private jet, supposedly for business. Turns out, it was for her: gallery shows, vineyard harvests, the kind of old-money life I only saw in movies.

The day I resigned, the sky pressed down heavy and humid, that D.C. summer heat that makes even the marble at the Lincoln Memorial sweat.

I stood before his desk, staring at my Payless pumps. She wore Chanel like it was Old Navy. I wore Payless pumps and hoped nobody noticed.

Nathan’s face was thundercloud dark, refusing to sign. His Mont Blanc hovered over my resignation letter like he was about to sign my death warrant.

I kept my voice steady, though my hands shook. "Do you remember that accident two years ago? When the Harrisons went bankrupt and their heir came after you? I took the knife for you."

The scar on my shoulder burned at the memory. I forced a smile, eyes raw from crying all morning.

"You said you’d do anything for me, just once. I never called it in. But Nathan Brooks, I’m calling it now. Let’s end this."

He looked at me, those gray-blue eyes flickering cold. The gold pen left a black blot on the page, ink bleeding like an old wound.

He finally spoke. "Rachel Morgan." My name, like a last memory.

He signed, slashing his name across the paper. Pushed the letter back to me—on that desk where he’d once made me feel priceless.

I picked it up, saw the formal signature—Nathan A. Brooks. Bowed, professional to the end. "Mr. Brooks, thank you."

Before I left, I hesitated at the door, glancing back at him, searching for a sign of regret. He didn’t look up. Not once.