Chapter 2 2

The next morning, I called my lawyer.

"Denise, it's Mia Hayes. I want to start divorce proceedings against Ethan Cole. Immediately."

Her sharp intake of breath was audible. "Mia, are you sure?"

"Crystal clear," I said. "And I'm moving to London. Marcus is arranging things."

Years of my life, I'd poured into him, trying to be the woman he wanted, or the woman I thought he needed.

I'd let my own colors fade, my own ambitions wither. My small art gallery dream, shelved. My laughter, muted.

No more.

To reclaim some piece of myself, that same week, I agreed to go to a high-profile art auction with my friend, Sarah.

Something I hadn't done in years. Ethan found such events frivolous.

I wore red. A defiant, vibrant red dress that had been gathering dust in the back of my closet.

Sarah whistled. "There she is! The Mia I remember."

The auction hall buzzed with New York's elite. And, of course, Ethan was there.

He stood near the entrance, a dark, imposing figure, his eyes scanning the room with his usual detached assessment.

He saw me. A flicker, nothing more, in his gaze.

I laughed, a genuine, loud laugh, at something witty an old college acquaintance, David, said.

David was charming, easy-going, the kind of man Ethan's circle would dismiss as insubstantial.

I saw Ethan's associate, a sycophant named Peterson, lean in and murmur something to him, gesturing towards me.

Ethan's reply, though I couldn't hear it, was clearly dismissive. His lips curled slightly.

"She knows the boundaries," I imagined him saying. The boundaries of his tolerance, of his carefully constructed world.

Then, Olivia Vance made her entrance.

Late, of course. Dramatic. She was a vision in emerald green, a dress that clung to her every curve, her dark hair cascading around her shoulders.

She glided towards Ethan, her eyes fixed on him, a predatory gleam in their depths.

She touched his arm, a light, possessive caress. "Ethan, darling, you started without me."

He stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Olivia, however, wasn't just there for Ethan. She was there to perform.

She deliberately flirted with a portly, older billionaire, her laughter tinkling, her hand lingering on his arm a moment too long.

I watched Ethan. His jaw tightened. That carefully constructed composure was cracking.

When the billionaire, emboldened, placed a hand on Olivia's lower back, Ethan moved.

Fast.

He pulled Olivia aside, his grip on her arm tight, a possessive fire I'd never seen directed at me, now blazing in his eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?" His voice was a low growl.

Olivia, master manipulator, feigned distress. Her lower lip trembled.

"Ethan, you've been ignoring me all night! What am I supposed to do?"

Her voice carried. Heads turned.

In the ensuing commotion, as Ethan tried to steer her away from prying eyes, Olivia "tripped."

Her arm flailed out.

Her heavy clutch, a metal-edged monstrosity, connected with my temple.

Stars exploded behind my eyes.

Then, blackness.