Chapter 4

My indifference to Ethan's self-mutilation seemed to unsettle Sophia more than any jealous outburst would have.

She probably expected tears, frantic calls.

She got silence.

I was busy. My London apartment was secured, a chic minimalist flat in Kensington.

My office space near Canary Wharf was being fitted out.

I was interviewing potential hires for the London branch, immersing myself in British building codes and market analysis.

Ethan was a fading photograph.

One afternoon, as I was packing the last of my personal belongings in my New York apartment, my doorbell rang.

Ethan.

He looked tired. The tattoo on his arm was still healing, covered by a loose sleeve.

"Olivia. Can we talk?"

"I'm busy, Ethan," I said, not opening the door wider.

"Please. Just for a few minutes."

I sighed, more out of a desire to get it over with than any lingering attachment. I stepped back.

He walked in, looking around the nearly empty apartment. Boxes were stacked everywhere.

"You're moving?" He sounded surprised.

"Yes. Hayes Construction is expanding to London. I'm heading the European office."

"London?" He frowned. "That's... sudden."

"It's been in the works for a while," I said, my voice cool.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, about the other night... at the gala... Sophia, she..."

"She made her demands. You complied. It's your life, Ethan."

He looked at me then, a strange expression on his face. "You don't care?"

"Why should I? We were... a convenience, remember?" I couldn't resist the small barb.

He flinched. "Noah told you."

"Noah tells me everything."

"Liv, I... I know I messed up. I was a fool."

"Yes, you were," I agreed calmly.

He seemed to expect more. An argument. Tears. Something.

My composure unnerved him. This wasn't the Olivia he thought he knew, the one who had adored him.

"I still care about you," he said, his voice low.

I almost laughed. "Do you, Ethan? Or do you just miss the convenience?"

Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it. Sophia. Of course.

His face tightened. He ignored the call.

"She's... demanding," he admitted, almost to himself.

"So I gathered."

He looked back at me, a hint of desperation in his eyes. "Can't we... can't we at least talk about this? About us?"

"There is no 'us,' Ethan. There never really was, was there?"

His phone buzzed again, insistently. He finally answered it, his voice strained.

"Sophia? What is it now? ... No, I'm busy... What? Are you serious?"

His face went pale. He listened, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"Throw the match? The NCAA championship? Sophia, that's insane! My whole career... my team..."

He listened again, his shoulders slumping.

"No... no, I can't... but... if I don't? You'll what?"

He covered the mouthpiece, his eyes darting to me, filled with a kind of horror.

He whispered, "She says if I don't throw the final match, she'll tell the press I... I assaulted her. Back in college."

My stomach churned. Blackmail. Vile.

But also, a choice. His choice.

He turned away, his voice dropping even lower as he spoke into the phone.

"Okay. Okay, Sophia. I'll do it. Just... just promise me you won't."

He hung up, looking utterly defeated.

He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"I have to go," he mumbled, and practically fled my apartment.

I watched him go, a profound sense of pity washing over me, quickly followed by a chilling detachment.

He was a moth flying into a flame, and there was nothing I, or anyone, could do to stop him.

A few days later, I watched the NCAA Men's Tennis National Championship final on TV in my nearly empty apartment, surrounded by boxes.

Ethan's team was the favorite. He was their star player.

It came down to the deciding match. Ethan versus their biggest rival.

The first set was tight. Ethan played well, but his opponent was relentless.

Then, in the second set, something shifted.

Ethan started making unforced errors. Easy shots sailed long. Serves hit the net.

The commentators were baffled. "Vance looks off his game today... very uncharacteristic errors..."

His teammates looked confused, then angry. His coach was pacing, shouting.

The crowd grew restless, then hostile. Boos started to echo through the stadium.

Ethan's face was a mask of misery. He kept glancing towards the stands, presumably where Sophia sat, watching her puppet dance.

He lost the set. 6-1.

The final set was a disaster. He barely moved for some shots. He double-faulted repeatedly.

It was a blatant, undeniable tank.

He lost the match, and with it, the national championship for his team.

As his opponent celebrated, Ethan walked to the net, shook his hand mechanically, and then walked off the court to a chorus of boos and disgusted shouts from his own fans.

Scouts from pro circuits were in the audience. They would have seen it all.

His pro ambitions, his reputation – all torched on the altar of Sophia Dubois.

I switched off the TV.

There was nothing left to see.

He had made his choice. He had destroyed himself.

And I felt... nothing but the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of packing tape.

London couldn't come soon enough.