My husband announced his engagement to another woman in French because he thought I was too ignorant to understand him.

That was his first mistake.

His second was doing it while I was sitting six feet away, wearing his wedding ring and the sapphire necklace he had given me on our third anniversary.

His third was assuming that after six years of loving him, I had told him everything there was to know about me.

I hadn't.

The ballroom at the Moretti estate glittered under three enormous crystal chandeliers while December snow pressed white against the windows. Two hundred guests filled the room—developers, private financiers, casino owners, shipping executives, and men whose businesses became noticeably difficult to explain after midnight.

At the center of it all stood my husband.

Adrian Moretti.

Thirty-eight years old. Six-foot-three. Broad shoulders beneath a black tuxedo. Dark hair combed neatly back. A thin scar crossing his left eyebrow from a night he had never fully explained.

In Chicago, people called him the Wolf when they thought I wasn't listening.

To me, he had always been Adrian.

The man who complained when I put too much garlic in pasta.

The man who slept with one hand closed around my wrist during thunderstorms.

The man who once drove three hours through a blizzard because I'd mentioned wanting hot chocolate from a diner near Madison.

At least, that was who I thought he was.

That evening, he had barely looked at me.

"Are you angry?" I asked quietly.

Adrian lifted his champagne glass without turning.

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

Four words.

Perfectly flat.

Across the ballroom, his mother, Eleanor Moretti, was laughing with Camille Devereaux.

Camille had arrived from Paris with her father and several European business associates. She was tall, blonde, elegant in the expensive way that made ordinary beauty look almost careless. Her ivory gown left one shoulder bare, and diamonds flashed whenever she tilted her head.

Eleanor touched Camille's arm affectionately.

That bothered me more than it should have.

I had spent six years trying to earn that woman's warmth.

Camille had managed it in an hour.

When Camille noticed me watching, she smiled.

Not kindly.

Knowingly.

A waiter refilled my glass.

"Mrs. Moretti?"

"Thank you."

His eyes dropped immediately.

That had been happening all night.

People stopped conversations when I approached. Several women who normally kissed my cheek had given me awkward hugs. Adrian's adviser, Nicholas Vale, had refused to meet my eyes twice.

I turned to my husband.

"Does everyone know something I don't?"

That finally made him look at me.

His expression was unreadable.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because they're acting like they're waiting for something."

Adrian's mouth tightened.

"You're imagining it."

For six years, I had accepted those words more often than I cared to admit.

You're imagining it.

You're worrying too much.

Business is complicated.

You wouldn't understand.

The cruel thing was that I had allowed him to believe the last one.

Not because it was true.

Because I had once thought love meant never needing to prove your value.

A spoon struck crystal.

The room quieted.

Adrian stood.

Every head turned.

He raised his champagne glass.

Then he began speaking in French.

My heart gave one confused beat.

Adrian spoke enough French for business, although his Chicago vowels fought him whenever he tried to sound Parisian. Tonight, however, he had practiced.

His pronunciation was careful.

"Tonight marks the beginning of a new chapter for our families."

Several European guests smiled.

Others raised their glasses.

I remained still.

Adrian continued.

"For many years, the Moretti and Devereaux families have pursued separate interests. Tonight, we choose a shared future."

Something cold moved through me.

I understood every word.

I had spoken French before I spoke to clients in English.

Before I met Adrian, I had spent nearly eight years in Paris. I studied economics there. Worked there. Argued in French, dreamed in French, once had my heart broken in French.

Adrian knew I had lived abroad.

He had simply never asked where.

At first, I thought that was funny.

Then marriage became busy.

Then his work consumed him.

Then he started introducing me as "the normal one" at business dinners.

My beautiful wife hates complicated things.

Isabella prefers flowers to numbers.

She keeps me human.

Everyone found it charming.