1

It was a beautiful Friday in October when Victoria Tate decided to murder her husband.

Standing over the sink with a mug of coffee, she watched the morning unravel on their quiet cul-de-sac. The idea had been floating around her mind for years, if she was being honest. Nestled and familiar like old curtains flapping in the breeze. Not that Warren suspected anything, of course. Why would he? She’d never given him a reason to doubt her loyalty. She was his second in command, his adoring wife.

He was the boss. The CEO.

And the title chafed her.

A little voice whispered that what she was planning was wrong. A sin. Victoria hadn’t gone to church in a long time, but she was pretty sure that if God didn’t want her to kill her husband, then he wouldn’t have made him such a prick.

Once upon a time, she’d believed those three letters would be attached to her name. She was a force at Livingston Corporation. Thriving. From lassoing big-ticket clients to negotiating contracts that would make Mark Cuban cry, Victoria proved time and again that not only did she belong at the dinner table, but that she was hosting the entire goddamn meal.

It should have been a no-brainer.

Then, stupidly, she’d married Warren. It was what everyone had expected her to do, regardless of her accolades. She was a Livingston. Livingston women got married and had babies.

Victoria thought she could be different.

She could have the husband and the home in Kent Wood Manor and the successful career. She didn’t have to choose. Her father had owned Livingston, after all. Nepotism aside, she was the best at what she did. She thought he would understand.

How wrong she had been.

Ten years down the road and Warren wanted to dump her like yesterday’s garbage. He didn’t want out of the marriage. That would be too simple. She almost wished divorce was on the table. Instead, he wanted her dignity, one of the defining characteristics that made Victoria Tate who she was.

We’re running out of time. A few years is all I’m asking for, Vic, he’d said. A family could be good for us. It could be good for you. The sabbatical forms will be on your desk in the morning. We can clean out your office together and figure out a solution—for your accounts, for—for a nursery. All of it. Trust me, Vic. This is what you want.

He’d smiled like the matter had already been decided. She guessed in his mind it had been. Black and white was kind of his thing. Warren wanted a kid. Victoria was going to give him one.

End of story.

Having a child was not the issue. She had nothing against children or women who made it their life’s goal to be the perfect mother. It was simply that Victoria had no clue if she wanted to be one of them. Wasn’t she supposed to know? Wasn’t every woman ingrained with some biological pull once they reached a certain age?

Victoria didn’t feel a maternal tug, but she didn’t have the luxury of pondering what that meant. Warren was taking away her choice.

Victoria couldn’t wrap her head around his logic. Warren hadn’t interacted with a kid since the children’s hospital fundraiser dinner the previous year, and that had solely been for the photo op. He wasn’t going to leave his job. He wouldn’t sacrifice his early morning golf outings or late-night meetings for a screaming newborn. He most certainly wouldn’t throw a burp cloth over his YSL button-down, let alone change a diaper.

That would fall to Victoria, and how was that fair? She loved her life the way it was. She loved her independence.

A child would change all of that. Acknowledging her misgivings didn’t make her a bad person; it made her rational. Practical.

Warren, on the other hand . . .

How could he be so callous? Blindly assume that she’d drop her clients for a car seat? How could he take everything from her without even asking for her input? It wasn’t like he’d have to endure the physical changes, the hormonal swings, the delivery. She wasn’t some empty vessel waiting to be filled. They were supposed to be partners, in love and in labor—pun intended—but Warren’s declaration that she was leaving Livingston and she was having his child had confirmed her long-held suspicions. He didn’t see her as an equal.

He didn’t see her at all.

She gripped the mug hard enough to feel the ceramic crack and then forced herself to relax. She didn’t lose control of her emotions often, but this morning she was finding it difficult to maintain her composure. Anyone would, Victoria thought. It wasn’t every day that a person’s entire world shifted. The life she’d constructed teetered on the brink of an abyss. She and Warren skirted the edge in a dark dance for power.

Like hell was she going to be the one to fall in.