The moment Henry and Andrea disappeared around the corner, arm in arm, Lindsay’s polite mask shattered completely.

She stood frozen behind her desk, chest heaving, fists clenched so tightly her nails left crescent marks in her palms. The image of Andrea calling Henry “babe” in that sweet, deliberate voice replayed in her head like a taunt. The deadly glare Andrea had thrown over her shoulder burned even hotter.

Lindsay paced the small space between her desk and the filing cabinets, heels clicking sharply against the floor. Three years. Three years of loyalty, of staying late, of knowing every detail of Henry’s life, of being the one he relied on. And...