Chapter 1

The clock had just struck nine when Isabella Sinclair's plane touched down in Salzburg.

It was her birthday.

As she switched on her phone, notifications flooded in—messages from colleagues, friends, even distant relatives.

But not a single one from her husband, Alexander Whitmore.

Her smile vanished.

By the time she reached the villa, it was past ten.

Margaret Dawson, the housekeeper, startled at the sight of her. "Mrs. Whitmore! You're here?"

"Where are Alexander and Sophia?" Isabella asked.

"Mr. Whitmore hasn't returned yet," Margaret replied. "And Miss Whitmore is in her room, playing."

Isabella handed off her luggage and climbed the stairs.

Sophia sat at her desk, absorbed in something, her small fingers working meticulously. She didn’t even glance up when the door opened.

"Sophia?"

The little girl turned, brightening. "Mom!"

Then she immediately went back to her task.

Isabella pulled her into a hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Sophia squirmed away.

"Mom, I'm busy."

It had been two months since Isabella last saw her daughter. The ache of missing her was unbearable. She wanted to talk, to hold her, to soak in every second.

But Sophia’s focus was unshakable.

"What are you making, sweetheart?"

"A shell necklace!" Sophia beamed, suddenly animated. "Victoria’s birthday is next week. Dad and I are making this for her. We polished every shell—aren’t they pretty?"

Isabella’s throat tightened.

Before she could speak, Sophia added, "Dad even got her a special custom gift. Tomorrow—"

A sharp pain lanced through Isabella’s chest.

"Sophia," she interrupted softly. "Do you know what today is?"

Sophia barely glanced up. "Huh? Mom, stop talking. You’re messing up my order—"

Isabella let go.

She stood there, waiting, but Sophia never looked back.

Finally, Isabella left without another word.

Downstairs, Margaret approached. "I called Mr. Whitmore. He said he’s busy tonight and asked you to rest."

Isabella nodded numbly.

Her fingers hovered over her phone. She dialed Alexander.

It rang endlessly before he answered, his voice indifferent. "I’m busy. We’ll talk tomorrow."

"Alexander, who is it?" Victoria Kensington’s voice cut in.

Isabella’s grip on the phone turned white-knuckled.

"Nothing important," Alexander replied.

The line went dead.

They hadn’t seen each other in months. She’d flown across the world, and he couldn’t spare five minutes.

This was their marriage—cold, distant, an afterthought.

She used to call again. Used to beg him to come home.

Not tonight.

The next morning, she tried once more.

Today was her actual birthday here.

She didn’t come just to see them. She’d hoped for one meal together. One moment where they felt like a family.

Alexander didn’t pick up.

A text arrived later: What is it?

Lunch today? All three of us? she typed.

Fine. Send the address.

No Happy Birthday. No acknowledgment.

She dressed mechanically, pausing at Sophia’s laughter drifting up the stairs.

"Aren’t you happy Mrs. Whitmore is here?" Margaret asked.

Sophia’s voice was light. "Dad and I promised Victoria we’d take her to the beach tomorrow. If Mom comes, it’ll be awkward. And she’s always so mean to Victoria—"

"Miss Whitmore, that’s your mother."

"I know. But Dad and I like Victoria more. Why can’t she be my mom instead?"

Isabella’s legs gave out.

She’d raised Sophia alone for years. Then Alexander took her abroad, and now—

Her daughter wished for another mother.

She repacked the gifts she’d brought.

When Margaret took Sophia out, Isabella wandered the city, hollow.

At noon, Alexander canceled. Something came up.

Of course.

She ended up outside The Grandeur, their old favorite restaurant.

And there they were—Alexander, Victoria, Sophia.

Victoria fed Sophia bites of her dessert. Alexander smiled at them like they were his entire world.

This was his something came up.

Her daughter. Her husband. Another woman.

Isabella turned away.

Back at the villa, she drafted divorce papers.

Alexander had been her dream since she was sixteen.

But dreams weren’t real.

She left the envelope with Margaret.

"To the airport," she told the driver.

The car pulled away.

She didn’t look back.