I swung the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your fa—”

My words died in my throat. The person standing at the door was not Mark.

Chapter 2: The Stranger in the Rain

Before me stood a tall man, perhaps in his early thirties. He wore a charcoal suit that looked incredibly expensive—bespoke, Italian wool—but it was now soaked through. Water dripped from the ends of his jet-black hair onto the shoulders of his sharp jacket. His face was arrestingly handsome, with a jawline that could cut glass and a nose that spoke of aristocratic breeding, but his expression was as cold as the Atlantic in winter.

His eyes bore into me, sharp and assessing, as if they could scan my bank balance and my soul in seconds. An aura of power emanated from him, tangible and heavy, making me instinctively take a step back.

“Eleanor Vance.”

His voice was deep, resonant, and full of intimidation. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.

I swallowed hard, trying to gather the scattered remnants of my courage. “Yes, that’s me. Who are you? If you’re looking for my husband, he’s not home.”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He just stared at me, his gaze dropping to my trembling hands, then shifting back to my swollen eyes. The corner of his lip lifted slightly, forming a thin, cynical smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know your husband isn’t home. He’s currently at the Hermès boutique on Madison Avenue buying a Birkin bag for my wife,” he said flatly.

My heart stopped for a beat, then restarted with a painful thud. “What?”

“I’m Julian Croft,” he said succinctly, as if the name alone explained everything.

And it did. Who didn’t know Julian Croft? The owner of Croft Enterprises, the young magnate whose face frequently graced the covers of Forbes and Fortune. He was the definition of old money—born rich, powerful, and intensely private.

But wait. What had he just said?

“Your… wife?”

“Chloe,” I murmured, the name tasting like ash. “Chloe is your wife.”

Julian nodded slowly. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look sad. His face was a mask of perfect, terrifying indifference. “May I come in? We have business to discuss, and this isn’t a conversation to be had in a doorway.”

I hesitated. Letting a strange man into the apartment when my husband wasn’t home was improper. It was dangerous. But considering what I had just learned about Mark, social norms felt like a joke. Besides, this man was a victim too. Just like me.

“Please,” I said finally, stepping aside.

Julian stepped inside. His scent washed over me as he passed—a mixture of rain, expensive tobacco, and a woody cologne that smelled like a forest after a storm. He didn’t seem impressed by our apartment’s interior, which I had once considered the height of luxury. To Julian Croft, this was probably a broom closet.

He stood in the middle of the living room, declining when I offered him a seat. His eyes swept across the room like a searchlight, landing squarely on Mark’s phone lying on the sofa.

“You know everything, don’t you?” he said, not looking at me.

“I just found out,” I answered bitterly. “His phone was left behind.”

Julian turned to face me. A flash of lightning outside illuminated half his face, casting deep shadows that made him look like a vengeful god.

“What’s your plan now? Cry? Rage? File for divorce immediately?”

“That’s none of your business,” I retorted sharply, finding a spark of defiance. “But yes, I’m divorcing him tonight. I refuse to live with a traitor for one second longer.”

“Don’t,” Julian cut in, his voice like a whip crack.

I furrowed my brow, confused and insulted. “Excuse me? Who are you to tell me what to do?”

Julian stepped closer. The distance between us evaporated. I could see the individual raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.

“Don’t divorce him tonight. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t let him know that you know,” he said, his tone one of absolute command.

“You’re insane,” I laughed, a hollow, jagged sound. “Your wife and my husband are having an affair, destroying our lives, and you’re asking me to stay silent? I am not some foolish, submissive woman who will tolerate disrespect.”

“I’m not asking you to accept the affair,” Julian said calmly, a stark contrast to my emotional turbulence. “I’m offering you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“True revenge,” Julian replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. “A divorce now will only set them free. Mark will be free to be with Chloe, and you’ll be left with nothing but a broken heart and a settlement that won’t cover your father’s debts. Is that justice?”