Chapter 2

John Miller's surgery was successful. He was stable, though in considerable pain. Mary stayed by his side, her hand gripping his. Sarah, her wrist in a cast, met with Ms. Eleanor Vance, a divorce lawyer whose reputation was as sharp as her tailored suits.

"The prenup is airtight, Ms. Miller," Eleanor confirmed, her gaze direct. "His infidelity is well-documented. We'll file immediately. The identity and relocation services your father astutely arranged are top-tier. It will take a few weeks for everything to be finalized. Until then..."

"Until then," Sarah said, her voice flat, "I go back. I act normal. I don't let him suspect a thing."

Eleanor nodded. "Precisely. Any deviation could spook him, and men like Ethan Hayes... they don't react well to being spooked."

Sarah knew. Oh, she knew.

Returning to the opulent New York penthouse felt like stepping into a gilded cage. Ethan was absent, likely tending to Tiffany or some urgent business deal. The air was thick with unspoken betrayals.

Sarah moved with a quiet purpose.

In the grand fireplace, she burned the remnants of their early days. Love letters penned in Ethan's bold, arrogant script. Photographs of them smiling, a lifetime ago, before his eyes turned cold. The flames consumed their laughter, their vows, turning them to ash.

A few days later, feigning a need for "country air," she drove to their sprawling Hamptons estate. She walked the grounds to the grove of ancient oak trees, the ones Ethan had grandly "dedicated to their eternal love." She met with a local arborist service she'd contacted.

"They look diseased," she said, pointing to perfectly healthy, magnificent trees. "A danger to the property. They all need to come down."

The arborist, though puzzled, saw a paying client. He tagged them with bright orange ribbons. The sound of future chainsaws was a satisfying hum in her mind.

Back in the city, under the cover of a grey, drizzly afternoon, Sarah walked to a small, tourist-clogged bridge famed for its "love locks." She found theirs easily – a heavy brass padlock engraved E+S Forever. Using a pair of bolt cutters she'd bought from a hardware store, she snipped it free. The metal shrieked in protest. She tossed the severed lock into the murky river below. It disappeared with a small splash. Forever.

Ethan returned a week later, Tiffany Vance in tow. Tiffany, looking pale but artfully so, clung to his arm, a tiny, fluffy white dog cradled in her other.

"Sarah, darling," Ethan said, his voice smooth, a hint of warning in his eyes. "Tiffany had a rather... stressful experience. A severe stress-induced rash, her doctors said. She needs a calm environment."

Tiffany offered a weak smile. "I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding, Sarah. About the... retreat."

"You will apologize to her," Ethan stated, not a request.

Sarah looked at Tiffany, then at Ethan. "No."

Ethan's eyes narrowed. Tiffany's lower lip trembled. "Oh, Ethan, it's okay. I don't want to cause trouble."

"She will apologize," Ethan repeated, his voice dropping.

Sarah met his gaze. "I have nothing to apologize for."

He stared at her for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Then he turned to Tiffany, his expression softening instantly. "There, there, sweet girl. Don't you worry. I'll take care of you." He stroked her hair. The little dog yapped.

"And this is Snowball," Tiffany cooed, nuzzling the dog. "Isn't he precious?"

Ethan, who had a strict "no pets in the penthouse, ever" rule, a rule Sarah had learned the hard way when she'd once suggested a rescue cat, smiled indulgently. "Adorable. We'll get him the best of everything."

Sarah watched, a cold detachment settling over her. His priorities were clear. She was an inconvenience. Tiffany and her yapping dog were now his focus.

Later, Ethan was on a conference call in his study. Tiffany found Sarah in the living room, staring out at the city lights. Snowball was sniffing at a priceless Persian rug.

"He really does love me, you know," Tiffany said, her earlier fragility gone, replaced by a smug confidence. "He's going to leave you. It's just a matter of time."

Sarah turned slowly. "Is that what he told you?"

"He doesn't have to," Tiffany preened. "It's obvious. He dotes on me. He bought Snowball for me because I was feeling down. He'd do anything for me."

Sarah felt a strange calm. "Then you can have him, Tiffany."

Tiffany blinked, surprised. "What?"

"You can have all of it," Sarah said, gesturing vaguely at the opulent surroundings. "The penthouse, the Hamptons estate, the jet. It can all be yours."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Tiffany's face, quickly masked by suspicion. "You're trying to trick me."

"No tricks," Sarah said. "I'm tired. I just want peace."

Tiffany seemed to consider this. Then, a sly look entered her eyes. She picked up a steaming mug of designer coffee – a special blend Ethan had delivered daily – from a nearby table.

"Oops!" Tiffany cried out, stumbling dramatically.

The scalding coffee flew from her hand, splashing not onto the floor, but directly onto her own pristine white silk blouse. She shrieked, a high-pitched, theatrical sound.

"Aaaah! It burns! Sarah, you... you pushed me!"

Ethan burst out of the study, his face a mask of fury. "What the hell is going on?"

Tiffany was sobbing, clutching her chest. "She... she attacked me, Ethan! She threw hot coffee on me! Look!" She pointed a trembling finger at Sarah.

Ethan's gaze, cold and hard, fell on Sarah. "You malicious bitch."

"I didn't touch her, Ethan," Sarah said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "She did it herself."

"Don't lie to me!" he roared. "I heard her scream!"

Tiffany, through her tears, put a hand on Ethan's arm. "Oh, Ethan, please... don't be angry with her. Maybe... maybe I just tripped. I'm so clumsy sometimes. The cameras, they'll show... but please, let's not even look. I don't want any more trouble." She gave a little sob, burying her face in his chest.

Ethan's expression softened as he looked down at Tiffany, stroking her hair. "Of course, my sweet girl. You're too good. Too forgiving." He glared back at Sarah. "But this cannot go unpunished."

He grabbed Sarah's arm, his fingers biting into her flesh, the one not in a cast. "You need to learn some goddamn manners."

He dragged her towards the back of the penthouse, towards the reinforced door of the large, walk-in wine cellar. It was always kept chilled to a precise temperature, dark, and soundproof.

He shoved her inside. "A day in here should cool you off."

The heavy door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place, plunging her into cold darkness.

Sarah sank to the floor, the chill seeping into her bones.

She remembered Ethan, years ago, showing her the newly constructed cellar. "This is our safe room, Sarah," he'd said, smiling, drawing her close. "If there's ever any trouble, any crisis, we come here. We'll be safe."

Safe.

She shivered, not just from the cold. The irony was a bitter pill.