Chapter 3

The next morning, I made a decision. If Ethan wouldn't come to me, I would go to him.

He was still technically living in the penthouse apartment my father had provided for us after our marriage, though in our first life, we'd barely shared the same airspace there.

I packed a bag, then called the movers. I had them clear out my things from the Miller townhouse and move them, along with Ethan's few possessions from his bachelor pad, into the penthouse.

If we were going to fix this, we needed to be in the same space.

The penthouse felt cold and impersonal when I arrived, despite the luxurious furnishings. It echoed with the ghosts of our unhappy past.

I resolved to change that.

First, food. Ethan had always been too busy, too stressed, to eat properly. In my first life, I'd never once cooked for him.

I, Olivia Miller, who considered boiling water a culinary feat, decided to make him dinner.

I called the head chef at one of my father's hotels.

"Chef Antoine," I said, trying to sound confident. "I need a recipe. Something... impressive. But also something a complete novice can make."

Antoine, bless his French heart, didn't laugh. He patiently walked me through a recipe for coq au vin, simplifying steps and offering encouragement.

Armed with a grocery list, I ventured out.

The rest of the day was a blur of chopping, stirring, and near-disasters. I managed to set off the smoke alarm twice.

But by evening, a passable coq au vin simmered on the stove, and the apartment actually smelled like home.

Now, to get Ethan here.

I tried his cell. Straight to voicemail. His office line. His secretary said he'd left for the day.

Where was he?

Anxiety gnawed at me. This wasn't like him. Even in our first life, he was a creature of habit, always predictable.

As I was setting the table, my phone rang. It was Noah Davis, Ethan's best friend and right-hand man at Miller Industries.

"Olivia? Is Ethan with you?" Noah sounded worried.

"No, I've been trying to reach him. Why? What's wrong?"

"I... I just got a call from a guy I know who works security at 'The Velvet Rope' downtown," Noah said, his voice hesitant. "He said Ethan's there. And he might be in some kind of trouble."

The Velvet Rope? That was an exclusive, and notoriously disreputable, nightclub. The kind of place Ethan would never be caught dead in.

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" My heart pounded.

"My contact was vague. Something about a fight. And a woman."

A woman?

A cold dread seeped into me.

"I'm on my way," I said, grabbing my keys.

The coq au vin, my peace offering, sat forgotten on the stove.

As I rushed out, I slammed my hand against the doorjamb. Pain shot up my arm. I cradled my throbbing fingers, tears of frustration and self-pity welling.

Was every effort I made going to be met with disaster?

When I finally pulled up to The Velvet Rope, the street was swarming with paparazzi, their flashes blinding.

And then I saw him.

Ethan.

He was walking out of the club, his suit jacket gone, his tie loosened. He looked disheveled, tired.

And he was carrying a woman in his arms.

She was unconscious, her dark hair fanned out against his chest. Even from a distance, in the chaotic glare of the camera flashes, I could see it.

She looked exactly like me.

My breath hitched. It was like looking into a distorted mirror.

Ethan pushed past the reporters, his face a grim mask, and headed for his car.

I got out of mine, my legs unsteady.

As he reached his car, the woman stirred. She opened her eyes, looked up at Ethan, and smiled, a small, fragile smile.

She murmured something, too low for me to hear.

Ethan didn't smile back, but his expression softened almost imperceptibly as he gently placed her in the passenger seat.

He saw me then. His eyes met mine over the roof of the car.

There was no surprise in his gaze. Just a cold, hard emptiness.

He got into the driver's seat and pulled away, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk, the flashes still popping around me.

I drove back to the penthouse, my mind reeling.

Who was she? And why did she look so much like me?

An hour later, I heard a key in the lock.

Ethan walked in. The woman was still with him, leaning heavily on his arm.

She looked around the penthouse, her eyes wide. When she saw me, she started.

"Oh," she said, her voice soft, a little breathless. "You must be Olivia. Ethan has told me... so little about you."

She offered a small, hesitant smile. "I'm Sophia. Sophia Evans."

Her resemblance to me was uncanny. Same dark hair, same eyes, same bone structure. It was like seeing a ghost of myself.

"What is she doing here, Ethan?" I demanded, my voice tight.

"She needed a place to stay," Ethan said, his tone flat. He led Sophia to the sofa. "She has nowhere else to go."

"Nowhere else to go? What about a hotel? Or her own apartment?"

"She was in trouble at that club," Ethan said, avoiding my gaze. "I helped her. She's staying here."

"Here? In our home?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Yes, here," he said, his voice firm. He looked at me then, his eyes cold as chips of ice. "Unless you'd prefer I take her somewhere else? Perhaps a hotel would be more... comfortable for her. And for me."

The unspoken threat hung in the air. If I objected, he would leave. With her.

My anger warred with a desperate fear of losing him completely.

He knew it. He was using it against me.

I looked at Sophia. She was watching me, her expression a mixture of fear and something else... something I couldn't quite decipher.

"Fine," I said, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "She can stay."

A small, almost triumphant, smile touched Sophia's lips before she quickly masked it with a look of gratitude.

Ethan nodded, his face unreadable.

I forced a smile, a brittle, painful thing. "Welcome to our home, Sophia."

My carefully prepared coq au vin sat cold and forgotten on the kitchen counter.

The battle for Ethan's heart, I realized, had just become far more complicated. And I was already losing.