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.
He didn’t know that her full name was Lydia Hart Sinclair. And he certainly didn’t know that the dusty antique bookstore she walked out of was actually the private archives of the Sinclair Foundation. She had just finished inspecting it before the board meeting that would announce her as the sole heiress to the Sinclair Media Group. It was a conglomerate that owned half the news stations in the country, including the financial network Derek watched every morning.
Two weeks later, the “Save the Date” cards for Derek and Jessica’s wedding went out. They were heavy, cream-colored cardstock with gold leaf lettering, costing fifteen dollars a pop. Derek wanted to make a statement.
He invited everyone: his boss, the CEO of Stratton Oakmont, his clients, and even his old college rivals. He also, in a stroke of drunken arrogance, sent one to Lydia.
“Why would you invite her?” Kyle asked over drinks at a rooftop bar in Chelsea.
Derek swirled his whiskey. “Closure, Kyle. Plus, I want her to see what she missed out on. I want her to see Jessica in that Vera Wang dress. I want her to see the ice sculpture. I want her to realize that leaving me was the biggest mistake of her life.”
“Didn’t you leave her?”
“Semantics,” Derek waved a hand dismissively. “The point is, I want her to suffer a little. Is that bad?”
“It’s petty,” Kyle laughed, “but I like it.”
Meanwhile, across the city, in a penthouse overlooking Central Park—a property that wasn’t listed on Zillow and had been in the Sinclair family since 1920—Lydia held the invitation between two fingers. She was sitting in a velvet armchair, wearing a silk robe that cost more than Derek’s entire wedding budget. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders in glossy waves. There were no messy buns here.
“He invited you?” a voice came from the balcony.
Lydia turned. Standing there was Tobias Thorn, the family’s chief legal counsel and her childhood best friend. Tobias was sharp, dangerously intelligent, and the only person who knew the full extent of the transition Lydia was undergoing.
“He did,” Lydia said, her voice cool and amused. “Derek has always been a fan of the theatrical.”
Tobias walked in, pouring himself a glass of vintage scotch. “The man is a moron. He’s celebrating a promotion to SVP while you’re about to be named Chairwoman of the board that owns his bank’s parent company. Does he have any idea?”
“None,” Lydia smiled. “I played the part of the dutiful, simple wife very well, Tobias. I wanted to see if he loved me, or if he just wanted a prop. When he started complaining that I wasn’t ambitious enough because I didn’t want to go to gala dinners every night, I knew it was over.”
“So are you going?” Tobias asked, gesturing to the invitation. “To the wedding?”
Lydia tapped the card against her chin. “The wedding is on the 14th of next month.”
“The same day as the Global Media Summit,” Tobias noted, “where you’re making your first public appearance as the Sinclair head.”
“Exactly,” Lydia said. “I can’t go. But I can send a gift.”
“A toaster?”
“No.” Lydia’s eyes glittered. “Something more appropriate. Derek loves status, right? He loves feeling important. I think I’ll buy the venue.”
Tobias choked on his drink. “You’re going to buy Oheka Castle?”
“Not the whole castle, Tobias. Don’t be dramatic. Just the hospitality group that manages their events. I was looking at their portfolio anyway. They’re undervalued. If I acquire them, I technically become his host.”
“You are terrifying,” Tobias grinned.
“He wanted a power couple,” Lydia said, standing up and walking to the window to look out at the city lights. “He wanted drama. He wanted a story to tell his friends. I’m just going to give him a better ending than he planned.”
Back in his office, Derek was stressing over the seating chart. Jessica was screaming at a florist on the phone.
“No, I said white peonies, not cream! Are you colorblind? My fiancé will sue you!” Jessica slammed the phone down. “Derek, you need to fix this. Everything is going wrong. The florist is an idiot, and now the band is saying they double-booked.”
“I’ll handle it, babe,” Derek said, massaging his temples. He checked his email. A notification popped up from Business Insider. Subject: “The Sleeping Giant Wakes: Sinclair Estate Finally Names Successor.”
Derek deleted it without reading. He didn’t care about old money families. He cared about his wedding. He cared about showing the world he had arrived.
He picked up his phone and texted Lydia. Hey, sent you an invite. No hard feelings. Hope you can make it. It’s going to be huge.
He watched the three dots appear, then disappear. No reply.
“She’s probably crying into a pint of ice cream,” Derek muttered to himself, feeling a sick sense of satisfaction.
He had no idea that at that exact moment, Lydia was sitting in a boardroom surrounded by twelve men in gray suits. She was signing a document that authorized the acquisition of the Prestige Hospitality Group—the very company Derek had just paid a fifty-thousand-dollar deposit to.
“Mr. Bolton?” his assistant knocked on the door. “There’s a call for you. It’s the bank. Something about your credit limit?”
“What?” Derek snapped. “I’m a VP. Put them through.” He picked up the phone. “This is Derek.”
“Mr. Bolton, this is fraud prevention. We noticed a massive charge for a wedding venue, but we also see you’ve maxed out three cards on jewelry and a lease for a Porsche.”
“It’s an investment!” Derek shouted, sweating slightly. “I’m good for it. My bonus is coming next month, right?”
“Well, we need to freeze the accounts until you can verify some income streams. It looks like your debt-to-income ratio is getting risky.”
“Do not freeze my cards!” Derek roared. “I have vendors to pay!” He slammed the phone down.
Jessica looked at him, eyes wide. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Derek lied, loosening his tie. “Just banking errors. Competence is hard to find these days.”
He walked to the window, looking down at the street. He needed this wedding to be perfect. He needed everyone to see he was a winner. If he had to max out every card and leverage his 401(k), he would do it.
Because the only thing worse than being broke was looking broke. And somewhere out there, Lydia was probably knitting a scarf, completely unaware of how high Derek was flying. Or so he thought.
Three days before the wedding, Derek felt like the King of New York. He had managed to secure two invitations to the opening cocktail hour of the Global Media and Finance Summit. It was the most exclusive networking event of the year, held in the Diamond Ballroom of the Pierre Hotel. Tickets were five thousand dollars a head, but Derek had bullied a vendor into giving him their corporate passes.
“This is it, Jess,” Derek said as they stepped out of the Uber Black. He adjusted his cufflinks. “Everyone who is anyone is here. If I play my cards right, I’ll secure the financing for my own firm within a year. Then I can tell Stratton Oakmont to shove it.”
