Signed The Papers: Watch Me Shine Now

The harsh glare of the desk lamp cut through the darkness of the Upper East Side penthouse.

Faith Owens sat hunched over the massive marble island in her study. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to rub away the gritty exhaustion. Her neck ached with a dull, throbbing rhythm.

She picked up her drafting pencil, forcing her focus back to the architectural blueprints spread out before her.

The sudden, violent vibration of her phone against the marble shattered the dead silence of the room.

The screen lit up. Quinn Baxter.

Faith picked it up. The heavy, thumping bass of a nightclub bled through the speaker before Quinn even spoke.

"Faith." Quinn's voice was breathless, sharp with an urgency that made the hairs on Faith's arms stand up. "Are you sitting down?"

"I'm working," Faith said, her voice raspy from disuse. "What's wrong?"

A sharp intake of breath hissed through the receiver. "My friend just got back from Paris. She was at JFK arrivals ten minutes ago. She sent me a picture."

Faith's heart skipped a beat. A cold, heavy stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. Her fingers tightened around the metal barrel of her drafting pencil.

"What picture, Quinn?"

"It's Hartwell," Quinn spat, the name dripping with venom. "He went to the airport. He picked up Eveline Craig."

The air in Faith's lungs vanished.

The pencil in her hand jerked. The graphite tip snapped, tearing a jagged, ugly black line straight across her meticulous floor plan.

A soft ping echoed from the phone. Quinn had sent the image.

Faith's hand shook so violently she could barely pull the phone away from her ear. The blue light of the screen washed over her pale face.

The photo was grainy, zoomed in from a distance, but the subjects were unmistakable.

Hartwell. Her husband of six years.

He was wearing his custom charcoal Tom Ford suit. His broad shoulders were angled downward, protective and intimate. His large hand rested firmly, possessively, on the small of a woman's waist.

It was a gesture of tender devotion Faith had never, not once, received in two thousand days of marriage.

Leaning into his chest, looking up at him with a fragile, flawless smile, was Eveline Craig. The perfect New York socialite. The woman Hartwell had always loved.

A wave of pure, physiological nausea crashed over Faith.

Acid burned the back of her throat. She clamped her free hand over her mouth, her stomach convulsing.

The phone slipped from her sweaty palm. It hit the marble countertop with a sickening crack.

The sound echoed off the high ceilings of the empty, cavernous penthouse. No one came running. No one asked if she was okay. She was utterly alone.

"Faith?" Quinn's voice was a tinny yell from the dropped device. "He's a piece of trash. Do not let him do this to you anymore. You have to end this dead marriage."

Faith swallowed the bile in her throat. She picked up