I ABANDONED MY WIFE FOR FOUR DAYS TO SPOIL MY MISTRESS—AND BY THE TIME I RETURNED, MY WIFE HAD NEARLY DIED ALONE IN THE SNOW

By 2:00 a.m., I was sitting alone in the rear office of my private penthouse suite in downtown Denver.

The city below was buried in three feet of fresh snow, the streetlights reflecting off the icy glass windows like cold amber eyes. On the mahogany desk in front of me sat three items: a half-empty bottle of twenty-year-old scotch, my primary phone continuously buzzing with calls from my corporate board, and the sealed plastic evidence bag containing Clara’s damaged phone.

The door to the suite opened softly.

Sophia walked inside, wearing a silk robe she had bought at the resort boutique in Malé. She looked pale, anxious, her manicured fingers twisting nervously around her phone.

“Ethan?” she asked softly, stepping toward the desk. “I... I spoke to your public relations director. He says the board is calling an emergency session tomorrow morning. The stock dropped nine percent after the morning news briefing.”

I didn't look up at her. I sat staring at the cracked screen inside the plastic bag.

“Ethan, please talk to me,” Sophia pleaded, coming around the desk and placing her hand gently on my shoulder. “It was a tragic accident. You couldn't have known the weather would turn. You can't let her sister destroy your reputation over a snowstorm. We can issue a joint statement—”

I reached up, grabbed Sophia’s wrist, and peeled her hand off my shoulder with a cold, deliberate force that made her gasp.

“Ethan?” she whispered, her eyes widening in shock.

“Go home, Sophia,” I said, my voice dead and quiet.

“What?”

“Go back to New York,” I repeated, looking at her for the first time.

For eight months, I had looked at Sophia and seen excitement, youth, and an escape from the quiet predictability of my marriage. But sitting in this dim room, surrounded by the wreckage of my life, I looked at her and saw only my own monstrous vanity reflected back at me. I saw the $86,000 pink diamond bracelet resting on her wrist—the bracelet I had bought while Clara was melting snow over a kerosene lamp to stay alive.

“Ethan, you can’t blame me for this!” Sophia’s voice turned sharp, defensive, her eyes flashing with anger. “You were the one who wanted to go to the Maldives! You were the one who turned your phone off! I just wanted to celebrate my birthday!”

“I know,” I said softly. “I am the monster here, Sophia. Not you. But I need you out of my sight.”

She stared at me for a long, furious moment, realizing that the billionaire who had bought her a Tribeca penthouse and taken her across the globe was completely gone. She pulled her wrist from my grip, straightened her coat, and turned toward the door.

“You’re going to lose everything, Ethan,” she spat bitterly from the doorway. “Your company, your wife, your reputation. And when you realize she’s never coming back, don't call me.”