Chapter 1

The click of my pen on the resignation letter was the loudest sound in my head.

It was done, a period at the end of a long, messy sentence I' d lived for years.

Freedom felt heavy, like a bag I wasn' t sure I could carry.

I walked through the open-plan office of Cole & Vance Global, my heels quiet on the plush carpet.

Polished wood, gleaming steel, the scent of expensive coffee – it was a world I' d once desperately wanted.

Now, I just wanted out.

I placed the letter on Mr. Henderson' s expensive mahogany desk in HR.

He' d understand, or he wouldn' t. It didn' t matter anymore.

Back in my small Queens apartment, the city noise felt familiar, a rough comfort.

I called Mom.

"I did it, Mom. I quit."

Her sigh came through the phone, a wave of relief.

"Oh, Mia, thank God. Finally."

"I know."

"That boy, Ethan... he was never good for you. All that money, that family... it' s a different world, baby."

"You need to find a good man, Mia. Someone from around here, someone decent. Someone who' ll treat you right."

"I will, Mom," I said, my voice even, betraying none of the exhaustion coiling in my stomach.

"I just need some time."

We talked a little more, her voice a soothing balm.

I promised to visit, to eat her cooking.

Hanging up, I sank onto my worn sofa. Time. What I needed was an ocean of it.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table.

A new text. Unknown number, but the tone was unmistakable.

Ethan' s penthouse. Now. Don' t be late. - I.

Isabella. Of course.

My stomach tightened.

Conditioned reflex. Years of it.

I stood up.

The Uber ride to TriBeCa was a blur of city lights.

Ethan' s building loomed, all glass and arrogance.

The doorman, uniformed and impassive, recognized me. A slight nod. He' d seen me come and go enough times.

The private elevator whisked me up, silent and fast.

It opened directly into the penthouse.

Cool marble underfoot, a cavernous space overlooking the city.

And Isabella, standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a silhouette against the glittering skyline.

She turned, a slow, deliberate movement.

Her smile didn' t reach her eyes.

"Amelia. So glad you could make it."

She gestured to a low glass table.

On it, a single sheet of paper. A sketch.

My sketch.

A small, whimsical design for a tiny park bench, shaped like a curled-up cat.

I' d drawn it for Ethan years ago, back at Columbia, before... before everything.

"Still trying to leave your little marks everywhere, aren't you?" Isabella' s voice was smooth, like poisoned honey.

"Trying to remind him of what you think you had?"

"That' s old, Isabella," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "Years old."

"Is it?" She picked it up, her perfectly manicured nails tapping the edge.

"Or is it a desperate little plea? A reminder that you' re still... available?"

Her eyes raked over me, from my sensible shoes to my slightly frayed jacket.

"You just don' t fit, do you, Mia? Working-class girl from Queens, trying to play in the big leagues."

"You think your little scholarship and your... sketches... make you special?"

The words were meant to hurt, and they did, a dull ache starting behind my ribs.

"I' m not trying to play anything," I said. "I just resigned today."

"Oh, I heard," she purred, stepping closer. "Running away?"

"No. Moving on."

"Ethan is mine, Mia. He was always mine. You were just... a distraction. A temporary convenience."

Then, her hand moved, a flash of speed.

Her palm connected with my cheek.

A sharp, stinging pain.

My head snapped back.

I touched my face, the skin already hot.

My eyes met hers. For a second, something in me wanted to lurch forward, to fight back.

But the years of their games, their power, held me rooted.

A tiny spark of defiance flickered. I straightened, not backing down.

"Don't touch me again, Isabella."

The elevator doors slid open.

Ethan.

He stood there, tall, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his expression unreadable, cold.

His eyes flicked from me to Isabella, then back to me, lingering on my cheek.

He moved then, not towards me, but to Isabella.

He gently took her arm, his body shielding hers slightly.

"Bella, what' s going on?" His voice was low, controlled.

He barely glanced at me, as if I were a piece of furniture slightly out of place.

Isabella' s face crumpled.

Tears welled in her eyes, perfect, glistening tears.

"Ethan, she... she came here to cause trouble! She' s been leaving things, trying to get to you!"

She held up the sketch like it was damning evidence.

"She' s obsessed! She attacked me when I told her to leave you alone!"

"That' s not true," I started, my voice shaking a little despite myself. "Ethan, that sketch is from-"

"Mia."

His voice cut through mine, sharp and final.

"Not now."

He turned his full attention to Isabella, his expression softening as he looked at her.

He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"Bella, darling, you know she means nothing to me."

His voice was a caress for Isabella, a blade for me.

"She never did. It was just... a release. You know that."

He didn' t even look at me when he said it.

A release.

Like an itch scratched. A pressure relieved.

The words hit me harder than Isabella' s slap.

My carefully constructed composure, the fragile shell I' d built around my resignation, cracked.

The floor seemed to tilt.

He thought I was nothing. After all this time, all these years, I was just... nothing.