Chapter 1

For fifteen years, my life was Ethan Hayes.

I left Ohio, my art scholarship, everything, to follow him to New York.

He said he liked "no-fuss" girls, "one of the guys."

So I cut my hair short, wore plain clothes.

I worked at his company, Hayes Capital, doing the hard operations work.

I loved him for fifteen years, waiting for him to love me back the same way.

Three years ago, he asked me to marry him.

"It's practical, Sarah," he said. "Good for the company's image before the IPO."

I said yes immediately.

On our wedding night, he handed me divorce papers, already signed by him.

"You're my best friend, Sarah," he told me. "This is just for show until the company is stable. We'll split amicably then."

We were intimate, yes, but he always kept that emotional wall up.

He always called me "buddy."

Then Chloe Vance started at Hayes Capital.

She was young, in her early twenties, hired as an executive assistant.

She seemed sweet, a little clumsy.

She made mistakes, but Ethan was always patient with her, which was strange.

He usually had no patience for errors.

He started spending more time with her, "mentoring" her.

"She has potential," he'd tell me. "She's just naive."

I felt a knot in my stomach whenever he talked about her.

The investor presentation was crucial. I was leading it.

I had worked for weeks, day and night.

The room was full of serious faces.

I started my presentation, clicked to the next slide.

But it wasn't my slide.

It was a photo of me. Intimate.

Then another. And another. Nine hundred and ninety-nine of them.

Photos only Ethan had, stored on his personal cloud.

The room gasped. Some people laughed, some looked disgusted.

My hands went cold. My mind went blank.

Chloe rushed forward, feigning horror.

"Oh my god, Sarah!" she cried, unplugging the projector.

It drew all eyes to her, the hero.

The investors were furious. A major deal was at risk.

Ethan didn't defend me.

He stood up, his face hard.

"Sarah, your carelessness with company equipment is unacceptable," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

The laptop was his. Chloe had borrowed it earlier, saying she wanted to "help" me set up.

Later, in his office, he was dismissive.

"Chloe's just a kid, she' s terrified," he said. "She feels awful. Don't make a big deal out of it."

A big deal? My career, my reputation, was shattered.

I felt stripped naked in front of the world.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I kept apologizing, to Ethan, to the investors, to anyone who would listen.

But the words felt hollow.

The coldness in the room was a physical thing.

Ethan just kept saying, "Chloe didn't mean it. She's young."

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He didn't even look at me with any sympathy.

He just cared about Chloe being "terrified."

My pain didn't seem to register.

I was so tired.

A deep exhaustion settled into my bones.

I stopped talking. There was nothing left to say.

My stomach was empty, but it felt full of rocks and ice.

The world had tilted, and I couldn't find my balance.

The next day, an email went out.

Chloe Vance was promoted to Director of Operations. My role.

The reason given: "Sarah Miller's recent lapse in judgment."

Mark Jenkins, Ethan's friend and a partner, looked at me with pity.

Other colleagues whispered.

I heard two assistants talking in the breakroom.

"It's not fair. Sarah built that department."

"Yeah, but Chloe is... you know. Ethan's favorite."

"It's always because of preference, isn't it?"

Preference. That word stung.

I went back to the apartment we shared.

I heard laughter from the bedroom. Ethan's and Chloe's.

I walked in. Chloe was wearing my bathrobe. My favorite silk one.

She was spraying my custom-blended perfume on her wrists.

The scent filled the room, a scent that was mine.

She looked up, a small, triumphant smile on her face before it changed to feigned innocence.

Ethan just laughed.

"Relax, Sarah," he said, putting his arm around Chloe's shoulder. "She admires you. It's like a kid sister thing. You're my buddy, you get it, right?"

Chloe looked down, pretending to be shy. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I just love your taste."

My buddy. He was still calling me that.

I remembered our wedding night, the divorce papers he' d made me keep.

Any hope I had left shriveled and died.

I walked to the small safe in our closet where I kept my copy.

I took them out. My hands were steady now.

I signed my name, Sarah Miller, on the line.

The ink was black and final.