His Unwanted Wife: The Genius's Spectacular Comeback

"Mrs. Sanford, my deepest condolences for your loss."

Christa Byrd accepted the man's handshake with the perfect balance of warmth and restraint, her fingers barely touching his palm before withdrawing. The black Tom Ford gown clung to her shoulders like a second skin, the silk heavy and expensive against her skin.

"Thank you, Mr. Nowak. Curtis was a remarkable man." His death had been sudden-a helicopter accident in the Alps. The official report cited mechanical failure, but Christa recalled Curtis once joking about a competitor with mob ties. She'd dismissed it then. Now, the thought felt like a splinter under the skin.

Mitch Nowak's eyes lingered on her face a beat too long, then slid toward the bar, then back to her. "Remarkable indeed. And his passing leaves... certain questions about Sanford Dynamics' direction. The board must be in quite a state."

Christa's smile didn't waver. She had learned this smile at Harvard Business School, perfected it through seven years of marriage to Denny Sanford. It said everything and nothing.

"The board is united in honoring Curtis's legacy," she said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to confirm the catering details."

She turned before he could respond, her heels clicking against the marble floor of the Hamptons estate. The memorial service for Curtis Sanford had drawn three hundred of New York's most influential names, and every single one of them had come with an agenda dressed in mourning black.

Christa moved through the crowd like a knife through water. She paused to accept condolences from a senator's wife, deflected a question about the foundation's new initiative, laughed softly at a memory someone shared about Curtis's college days. Each interaction was choreographed, precise, exhausting.

She needed air.

Not the garden air, thick with cigarette smoke and whispered speculation. Real air. Solitude.

Christa slipped toward the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the banister. The second floor of the Sanford estate was forbidden territory during events like this, reserved for family. She climbed the stairs slowly, her muscles aching from the performance downstairs.

The east wing was quiet. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light filtering through tall windows. She walked past closed doors-guest rooms, Curtis's childhood bedroom, the nursery where his daughter had once slept-until she reached the heavy oak door at the end of the hall.

Curtis's study.

He had called it his sanctuary. Leather and old books and the particular silence of a room that held real thoughts. Christa had spent hours here with him, discussing poetry of all things, while Denny handled the business downstairs.

She pulled out her phone, intending to send a quick message to Maura about her new estimated time of departure, when she heard voices from within the study.

"...can't keep meeting like this."

Brittany Baldwin's voice. Curtis's widow. Christa's sister-in-law for four years.

Christa's hand froze. She should leave. Whatever private grief Brittany was working through, it wasn't Christa's place to intrude.

Then she heard Denny's voice.

"There's no other choice. Not