She had everything.

Money. Status. A penthouse that looked down on the city like it belonged to her.

And a husband who understood the rules of her world.

Their marriage wasn’t broken—just open. Negotiated over wine and silence. No emotions. No attachments. That was the agreement.

She never broke rules.

Until him.

He was younger—mid-twenties, sharp eyes, reckless smile. Not impressed by her wealth, not intimidated by her name. He worked at one of the galleries she sponsored. That’s how it started. Conversations that lasted too long. Looks that lingered.

One night turned into a secret.

Then another.

And another.

He fell hard.

He waited for her texts like they were oxygen. He rearranged his life around the hours she could steal away. He didn’t care that she went home to another man—because in his head, she was already his.

But she knew better.

She’d lived long enough to understand how power worked. How age worked. How reality crushed fantasies