Chapter 1

David Sterling's voice came through Ethan's phone, a familiar mix of concern and disbelief.

"You actually did it? Submitted the resignation?"

Ethan leaned against the bare wall of his new, empty apartment in Denver.

"Yes, David. It's done."

"And Tori? Does she... I mean, she hasn't said anything to me. I'm guessing she doesn't know."

David sounded hesitant, like he was stepping into a minefield.

"She doesn't know," Ethan confirmed. His voice was flat.

"HR will process it. It's cleaner this way."

"Cleaner? Ethan, she's going to explode. Or implode. Or both. You're her right hand, her left hand, her damn brain sometimes. Want me to... talk to her? Soften the blow?"

Ethan closed his eyes for a moment. The thought of another confrontation, another round of Tori's carefully constructed indifference or, worse, her calculated charm, made him tired.

"No. Thanks, David. But no."

He paused, then added the lie he'd prepared.

"I told HR it's a family health crisis. Aunt in Chicago needs help. Plausible enough."

It was a shield, a way to avoid the messy truth. He didn't want pity, and he certainly didn't want Tori trying to change his mind with empty promises. He just wanted out.

He looked around the small, unfurnished living room. A far cry from the sleek, company-owned condo in Tori's building in Manhattan. That place had been a gilded cage, a perk designed for her convenience, not his comfort. It had made their secret encounters too easy for her.

The memories started to surface, unbidden.

He'd met David first, at NYU. Both on scholarships, David escaping the Sterling family pressure cooker for a while, Ethan just trying to get a foothold. They'd clicked, two outsiders in different ways.

Then David introduced him to Victoria. Tori.

It was for a group project, some complex financial modeling. Her brilliance was obvious, sharp and quick. But there was a flicker of something else too, a vulnerability she quickly masked. They'd worked late, fueled by coffee and ambition, and for a brief time, he'd felt a connection, a spark he thought she'd felt too.

She'd barely remembered him years later when he applied for the EA job at Sterling Capital.

His feelings for her, though, hadn't faded. They'd solidified into a quiet, persistent ache.

When David left Sterling Capital to run his non-profit, a position at Tori's side opened up. Ethan, with his sharp financial mind, could have aimed higher, but he took the Executive Assistant role.

To be near her. To support her. To hope.

A foolish hope, he knew that now.

The first time had been after the annual Sterling Capital gala. A deal had gone south at the last minute, a public embarrassment for Tori. He'd found her in her office, ice-queen facade shattered, staring at the city lights.

He'd stayed, listened, offered quiet support. One drink led to another. Shared frustration bled into something else.

They ended up at her penthouse.

The memory was a blur of expensive silk, the scent of her perfume, and a desperate, raw need that seemed to emanate from her.

The morning after was cold. Not just the air in her sterile apartment, but Tori herself.

She sat across from him at her vast kitchen island, already dressed in a severe business suit, a mug of black coffee in her hand.

"Ethan," she began, her voice devoid of the previous night's emotion. "Last night was... a mistake."

He'd expected it, but it still stung.

"I know you have... certain feelings for me, Ethan. I'm not blind."

She paused, then reached for her purse.

"I value your work immensely. You're indispensable. Let's not complicate that. This," she gestured vaguely between them, "can't happen again. I'm... involved with Chase. It's complicated, always has been."

She pulled out a checkbook. "For your discretion. And your trouble."

The casual cruelty of it, the assumption he could be bought off, was a fresh wound.

He looked at the checkbook, then at her. His voice was quiet, but firm.

"I don't want your money, Tori."

He took a breath. This was it, the precipice.

"I'll stay. I'll be your EA. I'll be whatever you need me to be professionally."

He saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes.

"But if Chase comes back into the picture, properly back, I'm gone. I won't be your placeholder."

She studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then, a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Fine."

An ambiguous acceptance. He'd clung to it.

And so began four years of a strange, hidden life.

By day, he was Ethan Miller, hyper-efficient EA, the man who knew her coffee order, her travel preferences, the subtle tells of her business rivals. He was the ghost in her machine, making her life run smoothly.

By night, sometimes, rarely, when Chase was out of the picture and the loneliness or stress became too much for her, she would call him. Or he'd find her waiting in his condo, a silent invitation.

He found a strange contentment in those stolen moments, in being the one she turned to, even if it was only for fleeting comfort. He told himself it was enough.

Then came her thirtieth birthday. He'd remembered she'd once idly mentioned a small, independent jewelry designer she admired. He'd spent weeks tracking down a specific piece, a delicate sapphire necklace he thought she'd love.

He was in his condo, the gift box on his small table, waiting for her signal. She was supposed to be having a quiet dinner with her parents.

His phone buzzed. Not a call from her, but a notification. Instagram.

Tori's account. A new post.

A picture of her, beaming, hand in hand with Chase Albright. Her other hand flashed a massive diamond ring.

The caption: "He asked. I said YES! To forever with my one and only @ChaseAlbright."

His stomach dropped.

Then his phone rang. Tori.

"Ethan? So sorry, something came up. With Chase. Can't make it tonight. Don't wait up."

Her voice was bright, distant, already miles away from him.

Click. She hung up.

The casual dismissal, the public spectacle, the sheer obliviousness to what she was doing to him. It was a new level of pain. Humiliation burned through him.

He stood there for a long time, the gift box feeling heavy in his hand.

Eventually, he moved. He had to get out. He started packing a small overnight bag, a reflex. He couldn't stay in that building, not tonight.

As he pulled his worn duffel from the closet, a small, leather-bound journal slipped out. It was filled with his notes, observations about Tori, half-formed poems, sketches of her profile he'd idly drawn during long meetings. Mementos of his foolish heart.

It landed open on the floor.

Just then, his door opened. Tori. She must have forgotten something.

She barely glanced at him, her eyes scanning the room. "Seen my spare key fob for the garage?"

She saw the open journal, the scattered papers with his handwriting, his sketches of her.

She didn't even blink. Stepped right over it.

"Never mind, found it." She jangled it, then left, a waft of her expensive perfume the only trace she'd been there.

She hadn't seen him at all.

He left the condo, walking blindly into the cold New York night. He didn't know where he was going. The rain started, a miserable drizzle that quickly turned into a downpour.

He slipped on a slick patch of sidewalk, his ankle twisting beneath him. Pain shot up his leg, sharp and sickening. He lay there for a moment, the cold rain soaking him, the city lights blurring.

He managed to limp back to his own small, rarely used apartment in Queens later that night, the one he kept for moments like these, when the pretense became too much.

His phone buzzed. A text from Tori.

"Heard you took a tumble. David mentioned it. Hope you're okay. Maybe it's for the best, Ethan. Time for you to move on. Find someone who can appreciate you properly. Chase and I are serious this time."

Her version of concern. A final, patronizing dismissal.

He sat on his threadbare sofa, his ankle throbbing, his clothes damp.

He looked at the small pile of mementos he'd salvaged from the condo – the journal, a pen she'd once left on his desk, a photo from a company retreat where she was almost smiling at something he'd said.

He took them, one by one, and dropped them into the cheap metal wastebasket.

He struck a match.

Watched the flames catch, curl the edges of the paper, turn his carefully hoarded memories, his love, into ash.

She wanted him to move on. Fine. He would.