Chapter 5

The news of my "dramatic exit" from Harrington Holdings spread like wildfire.

"Architectural Diva Eleanor Baker Axed!" screamed one tabloid headline. "Harrington Heir Dumps Long-Time Partner for New Muse!" chirped another.

The online comments sections were a cesspool of speculation and mockery. I was painted as a bitter, past-her-prime shrew, rightfully discarded. Olivia Morningstar was the fresh, exciting new talent.

James saw the videos, of course. The chaotic scrum of reporters, me falling, my knee bloody.

He told me later, much later, that a flicker of something had stirred in him then. A discomfort he couldn't name. He'd focused on the blood on my knee, then his eyes had caught on my wrist, briefly visible as I'd tried to shield my face.

On my wrist was a faint, silvery scar, a permanent reminder of a construction site accident years ago. A steel beam had come loose. I'd shoved him out of the way, taking the glancing blow myself. It had shattered my wrist.

He'd always believed Olivia had saved him that day.

She'd been visiting the site, had rushed to his side after the commotion, all fluttering concern and soft hands. He'd been dazed. She'd tearfully claimed to have pushed him, her delicate frame miraculously unhurt. He'd been consumed with gratitude and a fierce protectiveness for the fragile girl who'd supposedly risked herself for him.

Now, seeing that scar on *my* wrist in the news footage, a tiny seed of doubt was planted.

He'd tried to call my old apartment at Harrington Tower, but the line was disconnected. He drove there, using his old key.

The penthouse was empty. Sterile. Cleaned out.

In a forgotten corner of the walk-in closet, behind a loose floorboard I'd never bothered to fix, was an old metal first-aid box. Inside, amongst expired bandages and antiseptic wipes, was a yellowed envelope.

It contained the hospital discharge papers and X-rays from my wrist injury twenty years prior. Dated the day after the construction site accident. Clearly stating the nature of the trauma: "crush injury consistent with impact from falling heavy object."

James stared at the documents, the blood draining from his face.

He remembered me being quiet, withdrawn for weeks after the accident, my arm in a cast. I'd brushed off his concerns, saying I'd just been clumsy. Olivia had been so attentive to him, so worried about *his* near miss.

The truth, stark and undeniable, hit him like a physical blow.

I had saved him. Olivia had lied.

He sank to the floor of my empty closet, the papers clutched in his hand, a hollow sickness churning in his gut. He had built a shrine in his heart to a false idol, while the true savior had been by his side, unacknowledged, for two decades.

Meanwhile, Olivia was settling into her new role with gusto. She redecorated the Chief Designer's office – *my* old office – in shades of cream and gold, deeming my minimalist aesthetic "cold and uninspiring."

A week later, Harrington Holdings threw a lavish welcome party for her at The Plaza. It was meant to officially introduce her to the industry and signal a new era for the company.

During the party, Olivia, resplendent in a glittering gown, pointed to a simple ceramic mug on a side table – my favorite coffee mug, a cheap souvenir from a trip to Maine, left behind in the office.

"Ugh, can someone throw this hideous thing out?" she said with a moue of distaste. "It's probably full of bad energy."

James, standing nearby, usually indulgent of her whims, heard her.

"Leave it," he said, his voice sharper than he intended.

Olivia looked surprised, then pouted. "But James, it's so... déclassé."

"I said, leave it," he repeated, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He picked up the mug himself and put it in his pocket. A small, almost unconscious act of rebellion. Or perhaps, penance.

The seed of doubt was beginning to sprout.