Chapter 3

(Olivia's Journal)

I called Ethan the next morning, an hour before we were due at the Civil Affairs Bureau.

"I'm not coming," I said.

His explosion was immediate. Predictable.

"What the hell, Olivia! What game are you playing now? We had a deal!"

I let him rage. I pictured his handsome face, contorted with fury. Good. Let him feel something, even if it was just anger at me.

When he finally paused for breath, I spoke, my voice calm, measured.

"I have new terms, Ethan."

"New terms? Are you insane? You agreed! You signed nothing!"

"You signed your petition. I haven't signed the final agreement. And I won't. Not yet."

"What do you want, Olivia? Money? The houses? Spit it out!"

"I want a month, Ethan. One month of your time."

"A month? For what?" He sounded incredulous.

"A tour. Five places. Significant to our families. To my work. You come with me. You participate. No arguments. No Chloe tagging along. Just you and me. You do this, and at the end of the month, I'll sign everything. You'll be free."

Silence. I could hear him breathing heavily. Calculating.

"Five places? What places?"

"You'll see. Do we have a deal, Ethan?"

He was desperate for this divorce. Desperate for Chloe. He'd see it as a small, annoying price.

"One month," he finally bit out. "And then you sign, no more games, no more demands?"

"My word," I said.

"Fine." The word was clipped. "What's the first... task?" He spat the word like it was poison.

"Tonight," I said. "The Preservation Society Gala. Be ready at seven."

I hung up before he could object further.

The gala. Cole Development was a major sponsor. Ethan had to be there for appearances. He hated these events, but his father insisted.

He arrived at my door at seven sharp, his face a thundercloud. He looked impeccable in his tuxedo, but his eyes were stormy.

He barely glanced at me. I'd chosen a simple, elegant gown. Old, but classic. And a new headscarf, silk, patterned in soft blues and grays. To cover the thinning hair I wasn't ready for him to see.

"Let's get this over with," he muttered, offering a stiff arm.

At the gala, he was the charming CEO, shaking hands, making deals. I was the silent, invisible wife. He barely spoke to me, his attention constantly scanning the room, probably for Chloe, though I knew she wasn't invited to this particular event.

The highlight of the evening was an art auction. A painting came up, a landscape by a relatively unknown artist. It was beautiful, serene. A small cottage by a windswept sea. It reminded me of the summers my family used to spend in Maine, before everything fell apart.

I felt a pang, a longing for a peace I'd never truly known.

Ethan, surprisingly, started bidding. My heart gave a small, foolish leap. Was he... buying it for me? A peace offering? A sign that perhaps this month wouldn't be entirely unbearable?

He won the bid. The auctioneer congratulated him. He smiled, a genuine, pleased smile I hadn't seen directed my way in years.

He turned, not to me, but to his phone, already dialing.

"Chloe, darling," his voice was warm, intimate. "I got it. The painting you admired. It's yours."

My hand, which had unconsciously reached for his arm, froze. The blood drained from my face.

Acid churned in my stomach. Of course. It was always for Chloe. How could I have been so stupid?

The beautiful landscape now seemed to mock me, its serenity a lie.

He finished his call, oblivious to the devastation he'd wrought. He saw my face then.

"What's wrong with you now?" he snapped. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I couldn't speak. I turned and walked away, blindly pushing through the glittering crowd. I needed air. I needed to escape.

He followed me out to the terrace.

"Olivia! What the hell is your problem?" he hissed, grabbing my arm.

"Let go of me, Ethan." My voice was dangerously low.

"Not until you tell me why you're acting like a lunatic."

"A lunatic?" I laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "You buy a painting for your mistress, right in front of me, and I'm the lunatic?"

He had the grace to look momentarily uncomfortable. "It's just a painting, Olivia. Don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic." I pulled my arm free. "Yes, I suppose I am. Compared to your... restraint."

I walked away, leaving him standing there.

The first task. A resounding success. For him, anyway. He'd pleased Chloe.

For me, it was just another layer of pain.

I didn't see him for two days. I didn't expect to. He was probably celebrating his victory with Chloe, the painting hanging in her apartment.

I spent the time resting. The gala had exhausted me more than I cared to admit. The pain was a gnawing rat in my belly.

On the third day, he called. His voice was impatient.

"Well? What's next on your little list, Olivia? My month is ticking away."

I took a deep breath. "The Hayes ancestral home. Newport. Tomorrow."

A pause. "Newport? What for? That crumbling mausoleum?"

"It's part of our heritage, Ethan. Part of the legacy I want to... review."

He sighed, a long, suffering sound. "Fine. Newport it is. I'll have the jet ready."

He hung up.

I packed a small bag. My medication. A few changes of clothes. Another headscarf.

When he arrived the next morning, he actually took my small suitcase from my hand. An unconscious gesture of care, perhaps, leftover from a time when he didn't actively despise me.

"You travel light," he observed, his tone neutral.

"There's not much I need anymore," I said.

He didn't catch the double meaning.

Just as we were about to leave for the airport, his phone rang. Chloe, of course. Her name flashed on the screen.

His face softened instantly. "Hey, babe," he murmured, turning away from me, already walking towards his study for privacy. "What's up? ... Oh no, is it bad? ... Of course, I'll be right there."

He came back a moment later, his expression tight.

"Change of plans. Chloe's sick. I have to go to her."

He didn't look at me. He didn't apologize.

He just left.

Leaving me standing alone in the hallway, my bag at my feet.

Again.