Chapter 3

I kept my face blank.

Inside, a storm raged, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing it.

Victoria kept her hand on my arm, a possessive gesture.

She leaned in and kissed my cheek, her perfume cloying. "You'll sit with us, of course."

Her lips were cool. I felt nothing.

I glanced at Marcus. He was watching, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something – annoyance? – in his eyes.

Victoria's game. I was just a piece on her board.

The grant was announced. My name was called.

A polite smattering of applause. Victoria beamed, squeezing my arm tighter.

"See, darling? I take care of my people."

Her people. Like I was property.

Then, Marcus coughed. A small, delicate sound.

He pressed a hand to his chest, a pained expression on his face.

"Victoria," he murmured, his voice suddenly weak. "I don't feel well. I think... I think I need some air."

Instantly, Victoria's focus shifted.

All her attention, all her concern, was now on Marcus.

"Marcus! What is it? Are you alright?"

She dropped my arm as if it were on fire.

She was by his side in a second, her hand on his forehead, her voice laced with genuine panic.

"You're burning up! We need to get you out of here."

The transformation was startling. The cool, powerful CEO was gone, replaced by a flustered, worried woman.

She didn't even glance back at me.

She steered Marcus towards the exit, her arm around his waist, supporting him.

"I'll call my doctor," I heard her say as they disappeared.

Abandoned. Again.

So easily forgotten.

The room felt cold, empty.

I walked out of The Plaza, leaving the grant certificate on the table.

I didn't need her charity. I didn't need her.

Back in my small apartment, I spent the next few days in a feverish haze.

When the fever finally broke, I felt hollowed out.

I started to pack, methodically.

Every gift Victoria had given me, every sketch I' d made for her, every memento of our time together.

The expensive art books. The cashmere scarf. The framed photo of us at a gallery opening, her arm around me, both of us smiling – a lying, posed smile on her part, I now realized.

I piled it all into boxes.

I remembered her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about design, the rare moments I thought I saw a glimpse of someone real beneath the powerful facade.

It was all a dream, a beautiful, dangerous dream. And it was over.

The doorbell rang.

It was Victoria. And Marcus.

He looked pale but smug. He was carrying a suitcase.

"Ethan, darling," Victoria said, sweeping into the room. "Marcus wasn't feeling well. The doctor said he needs rest. He'll be staying here for a few days. My place is too chaotic with gala preparations."

Here? In my tiny apartment?

She finally noticed the boxes. "What's all this? Spring cleaning?"

Her tone was light, oblivious.

"Just getting rid of some old things," I said, my voice flat.

"Good. It's a bit cluttered in here anyway." She waved a hand dismissively. "Marcus will need the bedroom, of course. You don't mind the couch, do you, sweetie?"

It wasn't a question.

Marcus smirked at me over her shoulder.

"Don't worry, Ethan," he said. "I'm a very quiet guest."

Victoria was already directing him to the bedroom, my bedroom.

"We'll need to clear out some of your things from the closet, Ethan. Marcus needs space."

I watched them, a strange sense of detachment washing over me.

This was it. The final act of erasure.

Sadness pricked at me, but underneath it, a flicker of relief.

Soon, I would be gone.