Chapter 2

The flight back to New York was silent. Ethan stared out the window, the city lights a blur. The betrayal wasn't a fresh wound anymore; it was a festering infection.

In their vast, sterile penthouse, he finally spoke.

"I want a divorce, Victoria."

She flinched, her composure cracking. "Ethan, no. We can work through this."

"Work through what? You're pregnant with another man's child. A child conceived while we were married." He kept his voice level, the coldness in it surprising even himself.

"It was a mistake, a terrible mistake," she insisted.

"Then he goes," Ethan said. "Liam. And the child. They are out of our lives. Completely. That's the only way."

Victoria stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "You can't be serious. I can't just... abandon my child. Or Liam, he's... he needs support."

"He needs support?" Ethan laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "And what about me, Victoria? Your husband?"

"I won't divorce you," she said, her voice hardening, the CEO resurfacing. "We will handle this. I'll take responsibility for Liam and the baby. It won't affect your position, Ethan. Our life."

"My position?" He felt a chill. She was talking about him like a line item in her corporate budget. "This isn't a business negotiation, Victoria."

"Then what is it?" she shot back. "You want to destroy everything we've built over one mistake?"

"One mistake that's now going to have a name and a face and call you mother," he said.

Her refusal hung in the air. She wouldn't choose. Or rather, she had chosen, and it wasn't him.

Ethan moved out the next day. He went to their lake house in the Adirondacks, a place he'd designed, a place that once held happy memories. Now, it was just a refuge. The quiet was deafening. He read his classic novels, listened to Coltrane, and tried to piece together the fragments of his life.

Months later, he heard from Victoria's mother. The twins had been born. Boys.

"Ethan, dear, Victoria needs you. The christening is next month. You must be there. For appearances, if nothing else."

The Hayeses. Always about appearances. Their disapproval of his modest background had always been a subtle undercurrent. Now, it was a tidal wave of expectation.

He felt a pressure to go, a lingering sense of duty, or perhaps just a morbid curiosity to see the full extent of the wreckage.

As he packed a small bag, his mind drifted back. An old memory surfaced, a phone call from months ago, right after the Miami news but before Aspen. A woman's voice, husky, intriguing. Scarlett Dubois. From a rival old money family, a name synonymous with scandal and art galleries.

"Ethan Miller?" she'd asked.

"Yes?"

"Things sound... difficult for you. If they ever become unbearable, I might have an alternative. A collaboration, perhaps."

He'd dismissed it as a prank, or some society game. Unbearable. He was there now.

He found the scrap of paper where he'd scribbled her number. His hand trembled slightly as he dialed.

"Dubois." Her voice was unmistakable.

"It's Ethan Miller," he said. "About that collaboration... I'm ready to listen."