Chapter 2: First Encounter Three months after marrying Lucas Bailey, I finally met Phoebe Graham. It happened on my birthday. The Bailey Estate had been preparing for two weeks, transforming their sprawling Northbrook mansion into a showcase of wealth and taste. Crystal champagne flutes, imported flowers arranged in stunning displays, a string quartet playing softly in the corner-nothing had been overlooked. I overheard one of the guests whisper to another, "Old Mr. Bailey truly values his new granddaughter-in-law." "Probably every power player in Northbrook is here tonight," her companion replied. They weren't wrong. The room was filled with CEOs, politicians, and old money families who had ruled this city for generations. My father was there too, circulating the room with practiced ease, already discussing new business ventures with Lucas's uncle. I stood alone by the marble fireplace, sipping champagne and wearing the emerald silk dress Lucas had selected for me. We'd settled into a strange routine these past months-polite, distant, the perfect couple in public and virtual strangers in private. I was about to move toward the terrace when I heard a terrible crack from above. Looking up, I saw the massive crystal chandelier-a Bailey family heirloom worth more than most people's homes-coming loose from its moorings. Directly beneath it stood only a young waitress and myself. The room erupted in screams. I froze, calculating if I could dive out of the way in time. Then I saw Lucas Bailey pushing through the crowd, his face contorted with panic. He was running toward us-toward me, I thought. But he bypassed me completely, lunging instead for the waitress. He grabbed her arm and yanked her forcefully away from danger, wrapping his body protectively around hers as they tumbled to the floor. The chandelier crashed down, sending crystal shards flying in all directions. One jagged piece sliced across my forearm, leaving a deep gash. I barely felt the pain. All I could see was Lucas, still holding the waitress against his chest, his face buried in her hair. The look of absolute terror in his eyes-not for his wife, but for her. "Are you okay?" he whispered to her, oblivious to the chaos around them. "God, Phoebe, are you hurt?" So this was Phoebe Graham. She was beautiful in an unassuming way-delicate features, honey-blonde hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, large hazel eyes wide with shock. She wore the same black and white uniform as the other wait staff, but somehow on her it looked different. Special. Blood dripped from my arm onto the polished marble floor, forming a small crimson pool. Only then did Lucas seem to remember his wife existed. He looked up, saw me standing there bleeding, and a flash of guilt crossed his face. He disentangled himself from Phoebe, came to me, and without a word, scooped me into his arms. "We need to get to the hospital," he said, his voice steady and commanding now. "That needs stitches." The partygoers parted as Lucas carried me out, his stride purposeful. I caught a glimpse of Phoebe watching us leave, her expression unreadable. In the car, Lucas drove with one hand while pressing his monogrammed handkerchief against my wound with the other. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I should have reacted faster." I looked at him sideways. "You reacted plenty fast. Just not for me." He flinched but didn't deny it. "Autumn..." "It's fine," I said, turning to look out the window. "I understand completely." When I woke up in the hospital room after getting stitched up, Lucas was standing by the window, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. "You shouldn't have come today," he was saying, his voice low and intimate. "If you had gotten hurt, what would I do?" A pause as he listened. "I'll divorce her eventually. Just wait for me, okay?" Just two sentences. And I understood immediately. That waitress was Phoebe Graham. The girl he wanted to marry but couldn't. He turned and saw that I was awake, a faint sigh of relief escaping him. I wanted to smile, show him I was fine, but couldn't quite manage it. He walked over, raising an eyebrow. "You're awake?" I murmured a soft "Mm-hmm." In the three months since our marriage, we had appeared to be courteous and respectful to each other in public. In reality, aside from the night we got our marriage certificate, we had barely spoken when alone. At this moment, the silence between us was almost suffocating. After a long pause, he said, "Aren't you going to ask for an explanation?" I shook my head slightly. "There's no need. I figured out who she was." He chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. "You're just as sharp as you were back in school." I looked down at my bandaged arm, suddenly feeling very tired. The hospital lights were too bright, the antiseptic smell too strong, and the reality of my marriage too painful to bear. Lucas Bailey might be my husband on paper, but his heart belonged elsewhere. And no amount of Bailey wealth or social standing could change that simple fact.