Chapter 2

Ethan Cole, a master of subtle torment, always positioned himself as the reasonable one.

He'd glide into a room where Sarah was berating me, his expression one of gentle concern.

"Now, Sarah, perhaps Michael didn't mean it that way," he'd murmur, his hand resting lightly on her arm, a gesture of ownership.

It made my teeth ache.

He wasn't protecting me; he was reinforcing his control over her, showcasing his supposed benevolence while I remained the villain.

His eyes would meet mine over her head, a flicker of triumph in their depths.

The worst was her rejection of Leo, our son.

It wasn't overt dislike, but a chilling indifference that was far more painful.

Ethan had a son, a boy named Max from a fleeting relationship.

Sarah doted on Max when Ethan brought him around for carefully orchestrated photo opportunities.

She'd coo at him, buy him extravagant gifts, her face soft with an affection she never showed Leo.

"Max is such a bright boy," she'd say to Ethan, loud enough for me to hear. "He's going to be a heartbreaker."

Then she'd glance at Leo, babbling in his playpen, with a distant, almost clinical look.

One afternoon, Max had a minor scrape on his knee.

Sarah fussed over him, applying a cartoon bandage with exaggerated care.

Later, when Leo bumped his head and cried, Sarah barely looked up from her tablet.

"He's always so clumsy," she'd remarked to Ethan.

The words were like ice shards. My son. Our son.

The online chatter, the whispers in social circles – I'd learned to tune most of it out.

"Michael Johnson is just clinging on for the money."

"He trapped her, you know. She was too good for him even before the accident."

It was background noise, the soundtrack to my despair.

I didn't fight it anymore. What was the point?

Their Sarah, the brilliant, cold CEO, was a stranger to me.

My Sarah, the warm, loving architect I'd married, was gone, a ghost in my memories.

I remembered her promise, whispered late one night, years ago, before Leo, before the accident.

"No matter what, Michael, I'll always find my way back to you. Always."

Her fingers had traced the lines on my palm.

Now, her hand would recoil if I accidentally brushed against it.

The irony was a bitter pill I swallowed daily.

This escape, this staged death, wasn't just about me anymore.

It was about Leo. He deserved a father who wasn't broken, a life free from the shadow of a mother who didn't know him, and a man who reveled in our pain.

One afternoon, Leo was fussy, teething badly. His cries echoed through the sterile, modern house Sarah had redecorated after the accident, erasing all traces of our shared taste.

I was trying to soothe him, pacing the floor, when Ethan walked in.

"Can't you keep him quiet, Johnson?" he'd sneered, no pretense of politeness when Sarah wasn't around. "Some of us are trying to work."

He was "working" on his Instagram feed, curating his image as Sarah Hayes's devoted partner.

"He's a baby, Ethan," I said, my voice tight. "He's in pain."

"Your problem, not mine."

Leo's cries intensified. I turned my back on Ethan, focusing on my son.

That was the only battle I had left to fight – protecting Leo.

Later, Sarah's phone, the one she kept for "important calls," buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Her personal assistant, probably.

I ignored it.

I was packing a small duffel bag with Leo's essentials, a knot of grim determination in my chest.

My own bag was already hidden in the trunk of the old car I'd bought for cash, the one registered under a name that wasn't Michael Johnson.

The calls stopped.

Then a text. I saw Sarah's name flash on the screen. I didn't read it.

There was nothing left to say.

The next day, Ethan "tripped" over a rug I'd supposedly left out of place.

He made a show of wincing, clutching his ankle.

Sarah rushed to his side, all concern.

"Michael, for God's sake, can't you be more careful? Ethan could have been seriously hurt!"

"I barely touched it," Ethan groaned, milking the moment. "But really, Sarah, it's fine. Just a bit of a shock."

She glared at me. "Apologize to Ethan."

I looked at him, at his smug, false face. I said nothing.

The silver locket. It had been Sarah's gift to me on our first anniversary.

Our initials, M & S, intertwined.

She'd found it in a tiny antique shop, her eyes shining when she gave it to me.

"So we're always connected," she'd whispered.

I took it from my pocket.

I walked over to Ethan, who was still "recovering" on the sofa, Sarah fussing over him.

"Here," I said, holding it out. "I don't want it anymore."

Ethan looked surprised. Sarah looked... unsettled. A flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

He took it. "Well, thank you, Michael. Very generous." His smile was a predatory slash.

Sarah followed me as I walked towards the door.

"Michael, wait. That locket... why?"

I didn't turn. "It means nothing to me now."

I walked out, leaving her standing there, a confused frown on her face.

It was a small, cold satisfaction.

A tiny rehearsal for the final goodbye.