Chapter 3 3

I woke to the smell of antiseptic and the dull throb in my head.

Hospital. Again.

A nurse was checking my vitals.

"Mrs. Cole? You're awake. You have a concussion. A nasty one."

Ethan. Where was Ethan?

The nurse offered a sympathetic smile. "Your husband was here. He had to step out for a moment."

Stepped out. Right.

My phone was on the bedside table. I fumbled for it, my vision still a little blurry.

Instagram. Olivia's latest story.

A picture of her hand, a tiny, almost invisible scratch on her knuckle, with Ethan's hand gently holding hers.

The caption: "My hero Ethan, taking such good care of me after that awful stumble! So clumsy!"

Below it, a picture of a lavish bouquet of white lilies – my least favorite flower, her favorite – with a card peeking out: "For my brave Olivia. E."

Brave. For a scratch.

My head felt like it was splitting open. I had a concussion.

The door opened. Ethan.

His face was a mask of concern. Performative concern.

"Mia, thank God you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," I said, my voice raspy.

"Olivia feels terrible. It was an accident, of course."

Of course.

"She sustained a nasty scratch," he continued, his brow furrowed with genuine anxiety. For Olivia.

"A scratch," I repeated, flatly.

"Yes. I had Dr. Henderson look at it. He says it will be fine, but she was very shaken."

Dr. Henderson. The city's top plastic surgeon. For a scratch.

He then produced a velvet box. "I know this doesn't make up for it, Mia, but..."

He opened it. A diamond necklace. Obscenely large. Ridiculously expensive.

"Compensation," I said.

"A token of my apology for the... unpleasantness." He cleared his throat. "I've spoken to the auction house. They understand it was an accident. There will be no... issues."

He meant he'd smoothed it over. Made sure Olivia faced no consequences.

"I want her charged, Ethan."

He looked aghast. "Mia, don't be ridiculous. It was an accident. Olivia is distraught. Pursuing this would be... unseemly. And damaging."

Damaging to his image. To Olivia.

My disgust was a cold, hard knot in my stomach.

"Get out, Ethan."

"Mia..."

"Get out. And tell your... sister... to enjoy her flowers."

He left, looking put-upon.

I called Denise, my lawyer.

"Denise? Expedite the divorce. And document everything. The 'accident' at the auction. The concussion. His reaction. Everything."

"Consider it done, Mia."

Ethan, through his family's phalanx of lawyers, would try to stall, to control the narrative.

Let him try.

The next day, Olivia, under the guise of "concern," moved into our penthouse.

"To help Mia recover," she'd cooed to Ethan, who'd readily agreed.

My personal hell had just acquired a new, live-in demon.