At 8:00 a.m. sharp, he posted the photo. It was a calculated flex: a close-up of a diamond ring that cost significantly more than his ex-wife’s entire car, accompanied by the caption, “Finally, a woman who matches my ambition.”
Derek believed he had played the game of life with absolute perfection. He had discarded Lydia, his practical, boring starter wife, and upgraded to Jessica, a flashy, younger model. He was convinced he was trading a Honda for a Ferrari.
He was currently consumed by planning the wedding of the century, boasting to every colleague and acquaintance within earshot. However, while Derek was busy refreshing his feed to count the likes on his engagement announcement, he completely missed the breaking news notification that was about to shatter his reality.
The woman he had just tossed aside like yesterday’s newspaper wasn’t struggling. She was stepping into an inheritance that made standard billionaires look like paupers. In a twist of fate he never saw coming, she was about to become his boss. The ink on their divorce papers wasn’t just dry; in Derek Bolton’s mind, it was fossilized history.
He sat comfortably in the high-backed leather chair of his corner office at Stratton Oakmont Financial, gently swirling a glass of sparkling water that retailed for twelve dollars a bottle. He gazed out over the Manhattan skyline, a sprawling view he felt he finally deserved after years of climbing the ladder.
“You should have seen her face, man,” Derek laughed into his AirPods, recounting the split to his best friend, Kyle. “Lydia didn’t even fight for the alimony. She just looked at me with those big, sad, doe eyes and signed on the dotted line. It was pathetic, honestly. Zero fight, zero ambition. That’s exactly why I had to get out.”
“She didn’t ask for the house?” Kyle asked, his voice crackling slightly through the connection.
“Nope. She packed her bags and moved into some studio apartment in Brooklyn. Can you imagine? Going from our place in the Upper East Side to Brooklyn? It’s embarrassing. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.”
Derek ended the call and swiveled his chair around to face his desk. He caught his reflection in the darkened monitor of his computer. At thirty-four, Derek was handsome in a generic, corporate sort of way: a sharp jawline, an expensive haircut, and a suit that cost three grand.
He was a Senior Vice President, and in his own mind, he was a god walking among mortals. He unlocked his phone and opened Instagram to admire his latest post. There it was: a picture of Jessica’s hand resting possessively on his arm, a massive four-carat emerald-cut diamond glittering on her finger.
The caption read: “UPGRADE COMPLETE. NEW CHAPTER WITH A WOMAN WHO UNDERSTANDS THE HUSTLE. POWER COUPLE. NEW BEGINNINGS.” It had already garnered four hundred likes. Jessica was everything Lydia wasn’t.
She was twenty-four, an influencer with a vague job description that seemed to involve attending parties and looking expensive. She was loud, demanding, and obsessed with status—traits Derek mistook for ambition. Lydia, on the other hand, had been quiet.
She was a librarian who wore oversized cardigans and spent her weekends volunteering at animal shelters. She was sweet, reliable, and to Derek, utterly suffocating in her mediocrity. He had married Lydia six years ago when he was just a junior analyst. Back then, her stability was comforting.
She paid the bills when he was broke; she cooked dinner when he worked late. But now? Now he was a shark, and sharks don’t swim with guppies.
“Derek?”
He looked up. Jessica breezed into his office, smelling of Chanel No. 5 and entitlement. She was wearing a white dress that was perhaps a little too short for a corporate environment, but Derek loved the envious glances he received from the junior associates.
“Babe,” he grinned, standing up to greet her. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk about the venue,” Jessica said, pouting as she dropped her Hermès Birkin bag onto his mahogany desk. “The Plaza is saying they’re booked for our date. Can you believe the audacity? I told them who you were.”
Derek puffed out his chest, his ego stroked. “Don’t worry, I’ll make a call. Who’s the event manager?”
“Some guy named Richard,” she sighed, inspecting her manicure. “Also, I saw your ex today.”
Derek froze. “Lydia? Where?”
“I was grabbing coffee in SoHo. She was coming out of that old, dusty antique bookstore. She looked rough, Derek. No makeup, hair in a messy bun, wearing a trench coat that looked like it was from a thrift store.” Jessica giggled cruelly. “She was carrying a box of books. I almost offered her a dollar.”
Derek let out a barking laugh. “God, that’s tragic. I told you she has no drive. She’s probably selling her old books just to make rent.”
“I made sure she saw the ring,” Jessica added, her eyes gleaming with malice. “I waved. She just stared at me and got into a cab. Not even an Uber, Derek. A yellow cab.”
“Well, let that be a reminder of why I chose you,” Derek said, pulling her close. “You’re the future. She’s ancient history.”
But Derek was wrong about one thing. Lydia hadn’t been staring at the ring with jealousy. She had been staring with pity. And she wasn’t getting into a cab because she couldn’t afford an Uber Black.
She was getting into a cab because her usual driver, a massive ex-SAS bodyguard named Arthur, was currently circling the block in the armored Maybach, waiting for the paparazzi to clear out.
Derek had spent six years with Lydia, and in all that time, he had never once asked her about her mother’s maiden name. He knew her father was a schoolteacher from Ohio. He knew she liked Earl Grey tea. But he didn’t know that “Lydia Hart” was a shortened alias.
