The eighth time Adrian Cole stopped me from becoming his wife, he still expected me to wait for him.

The destruction of Adrian Cole was swift, brutal, and entirely of his own making.

Once Mrs. Sterling and the Ohio Blake family initiated formal proceedings, the dominoes fell with terrifying speed. The Cook County District Attorney’s office launched an official review into the Lake Geneva boating accident, subpoenaing Cole Logistics’ internal communications and the off-shore accounts of St. Jude Horizon Holdings.

By Friday afternoon, trading on Cole Logistics stock was suspended following a twenty-eight percent plunge in pre-market valuation.

Noah and I watched the news unfold from the trading floor of Grant Capital.

"The board of directors is meeting right now," Noah said, checking his private terminal. "Adrian is being forced out. They are offering him a choice: resign quietly with a minimal severance package or face an emergency shareholder vote for criminal mismanagement."

"And the European rollout?" I asked.

"Cancelled," Noah replied. "The German partners withdrew their letters of intent this morning when they learned your agency had terminated its branding contract. They realized Cole Logistics without Maya Vance was just an overpriced fleet of diesel trucks with bad leadership."

My phone rang. It was an unlisted number.

I answered it, putting it on speaker so Noah could hear.

"Maya."

Adrian’s voice was unrecognizable. The smooth, cultured baritone had been replaced by a hollow, broken croak. I could hear the sound of heavy rain pouring against glass in the background.

"Where are you, Adrian?" I asked.

"The residence," he whispered. "The board... they took my keycard. My accounts are frozen pending the audit. Vanessa took Emma and left for a hotel in Rosemont; she’s already signed a cooperation agreement with the Cleveland lawyers to avoid criminal charges. She threw me to the wolves, Maya. After everything I gave her... she gave them every text message I ever sent her."

I felt no joy in his voice, but I felt no sorrow either. It was the sterile sound of justice catching up with an unpaid invoice.

"You chose her, Adrian," I said. "Eight times."

"I was trying to keep us safe!" Adrian cried, his voice cracking with sudden, hysterical despair. "I was terrified! If the truth about Lake Geneva came out, my father’s legacy, the company, everything would have vanished! I thought if we adopted Emma, Vanessa would go away, we would have the trust money, and we could finally be happy!"

"You didn't want to keep *us* safe, Adrian," I said, my voice steady and unyielding. "You wanted to keep *yourself* comfortable. You used me as a shock absorber for your cowardice. You expected me to carry the legal responsibility for another woman’s child while you played the benevolent patriarch. You didn't love me, Adrian. You just loved the idea of a woman who never asked for receipts."

"I love you, Maya," Adrian wept openly now, the sound pathetic and grating. "I swear to God, I love you. Please come back. Just come to the penthouse. We can take whatever money is left, we can leave Chicago, we can go to Europe... we can get married tomorrow. The ninth time. A real wedding. No Vanessa. No Emma. Just you and me."

I looked at Noah. Noah was looking out the window toward the gray horizon, his hands in his pockets, his posture completely relaxed. He was not worried that I would go back. He trusted me completely.

"Adrian," I said, leaning toward the phone. "There will never be a ninth wedding. Because the woman who loved you died at the Cook County courthouse on Monday morning. And the woman who is speaking to you now doesn't even recognize your voice."