Chapter 2

Isabella, emboldened by Ethan' s dismissal of me, pressed her advantage.

Her eyes, still wet with those fake tears, fixed on Ethan.

"Prove it, Ethan. Prove she means nothing."

Her voice was a childish whine, but her eyes held a glint of steel.

She wanted more than his words. She wanted a sacrifice.

I clutched my bag, my knuckles white.

My portfolio was inside. My resignation letter, yes, but also my personal designs.

Concepts for community centers, sustainable housing. My real work. My hope.

Isabella' s gaze flicked to my bag.

A cruel smile touched her lips.

"What' s in there, Mia? More little love notes for Ethan? More pathetic attempts to impress him?"

Before I could react, she snatched the bag from my shoulder.

The contents spilled onto the expensive Persian rug.

My carefully rendered drawings, my notes, scattered like fallen leaves.

My copy of the resignation letter lay starkly white against the deep red of the rug.

"Oh, look," Isabella cooed, picking up a sketch of a small library for a low-income neighborhood. "How... quaint. Trying to save the world, are we, Mia?"

She held it up for Ethan to see, her expression mocking.

Ethan just watched, his face a mask of indifference.

"Isabella, that' s enough," he said, but there was no force in his voice.

"Is it, Ethan?" she challenged, her eyes flashing. "Or do you secretly admire her little... projects?"

She let the sketch flutter from her fingers.

Then, as if in slow motion, she reached for a nearby crystal glass of red wine.

With a small, theatrical gasp of "Oops!", she tilted it.

The dark liquid arced through the air, splashing across my white blouse, drenching my scattered designs.

A deep crimson stain bloomed on the paper, bleeding into my intricate lines, obscuring my careful lettering.

My work. My future. Ruined.

A choked sound escaped me.

Ethan finally moved. He stepped forward, not to help me, but to survey the damage.

He looked at the wine-soaked papers, then at my stained blouse, his expression one of faint distaste.

"Clean it up, Mia," he said, his voice flat.

"And then get out."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and tossed a few hundred-dollar bills onto the stained rug.

"For the dry cleaning."

The insult was clear, a final, contemptuous dismissal.

My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.

I couldn' t breathe. Couldn' t think.

I turned and fled.

Out of the penthouse, into the waiting elevator, away from their cruelty.

The elevator doors opened onto the silent, opulent lobby.

I stumbled out, tears blurring my vision.

The doorman looked away, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

I burst out of the building, into the sudden, sheeting rain of a New York downpour.

The cold water plastered my hair to my face, soaked through my ruined blouse, but I barely felt it.

Each drop was a tiny hammer, pounding home the humiliation.

Years. I had given years of my life, my heart, my talent, to Ethan.

I remembered him at Columbia – charming, brilliant, a little reckless.

He' d been drawn to my quiet intensity, my different perspective. Or so I' d thought.

Isabella was there too, of course. Rich, beautiful, popular.

She' d befriended me, a seemingly kind gesture.

I' d been naive, flattered by her attention.

I saw now that I was just a foil, a less shiny object to make her sparkle brighter.

Ethan had pursued Isabella, and I, fool that I was, had helped him.

I' d listened to his worries, offered advice, all while secretly, hopelessly, in love with him.

When Isabella had abruptly left him for a European adventure, he' d been devastated.

And I had been there.

I picked up the pieces. I became his assistant, his confidante, his shadow.

I managed his life, his work, with meticulous care.

Then, one night, drunk and despairing, he' d reached for me.

It wasn' t love. It was need, a desperate grasping in the dark.

I knew it. But I' d hoped.

That was the beginning of our "arrangement."

His needs met, my hopes flickering.

For three years, it had been like that.

His convenient comfort when Isabella was away or when they fought.

Then Isabella returned, and just like that, I was discarded.

He' d gone back to her without a second thought.

That' s when I' d finally written the resignation letter.

That' s what led me here, sobbing in a New York City downpour, my professional dreams stained red, his carelessly tossed money probably dissolving in my pocket.

He knew. He' d always known how I felt.

His words, "a release," echoed in my mind, a cruel confirmation of my insignificance.

My peace wasn' t for sale. My dignity wasn' t his to soil.

I stumbled on, the rain washing away my tears, or maybe just adding to them.

I had to get away. I had to.