Chapter 2

I drove back to our San Francisco apartment, the city lights a blur through unshed tears. The key turned in the lock with a familiar click, a sound that now felt alien. Inside, on the kitchen counter, sat a small bouquet of my favorite white orchids. A peace offering? A cruel joke?

The delivery guy from the corner florist had been beaming when he handed them over earlier, before I left for Napa. "Mr. Thompson is so thoughtful! He remembered your favorites."

Thoughtful. Ethan. The word was a mockery. How could he remember my favorite flower and forget my heart, my loyalty, our six years? I sank onto the sofa, the plush cushions offering no comfort. The apartment, once our shared sanctuary, felt cold, filled with his lies. I finally let the tears come, silent sobs shaking my body. He bought that ring for me, I'd thought, the ring that was now on Isabella's finger. The orchids, beautiful and fragrant, made me want to retch.

The sound of his key in the door made me sit up, wiping my eyes. Ethan walked in, looking pleased with himself, the orchids still on the counter. He carried another, smaller bouquet, also orchids.

"Ava, you're back," he said, his tone casual, as if nothing was amiss. He placed the new bouquet next to the first. "For you. Happy birthday, by the way."

He then launched into his explanation, a rehearsed speech. "Look, about Isabella... she has this rare heart condition. The doctors, they don't give her long. Marrying me, it's her dying wish. A childhood dream. I couldn't say no."

His eyes, usually so direct, flickered away from mine.

"So, I'm going to get engaged to her. Officially. In three days. I know you'll understand, Ava. You always do."

He expected understanding. After shattering my world, he expected me to nod and accept his twisted justification. For years, I had understood. I'd understood his long hours, his stress, his "need for space" which I now realized was time with her, or pining for her. I'd understood everything, and it had gotten me nowhere.

This time, something in me snapped, but not in the way he expected. No tears, no shouting. Just a cold, clear calm.

"I understand, Ethan," I said, my voice even.

He looked surprised, then relieved. "Great. I knew you would. She really needs this. It's just a formality, really."

A formality. Our life together, dismissed. I watched him, the man I thought I knew, and felt nothing but a vast emptiness. He leaned in to kiss me, a casual peck, but I saw a faint smear of Isabella's bright red lipstick on his collar, smelled her cloying perfume. I subtly dodged his kiss, a wave of nausea rising.

He didn't notice, or didn't care. "I should go check on her. She's very fragile." He grabbed his keys, already halfway out the door. "Don't wait up."

He left, probably relieved he'd gotten off so easily. As soon as the door closed, I stood up. I walked to the trash can and swept the orchids, both bouquets, into it. Then, I went to the bedroom and pulled out my suitcases. I started packing, methodically. Every item that reminded me of him, of us, went into a separate pile for disposal. My life with Ethan Thompson was over.