Chapter 3

I continued to pack my personal belongings.

A suitcase at a time. Stored in a small guest room closet.

Ethan didn't notice. Or didn't care.

He was busy. Always busy.

With work. With Chloe.

He barely saw me. We lived in the same house like strangers.

Sometimes, I felt like a ghost.

It made my escape plan easier.

One afternoon, I had to go to a gallery opening.

One of Harrison Mills' clients was the artist.

My parents were out of town. I had to represent the family.

Ethan was supposed to come. He cancelled at the last minute.

"Something came up with Davenport Global," his assistant told me.

I knew "something" was Chloe.

I went alone.

The gallery was crowded. Fashionable people. Loud chatter.

I saw him across the room.

Ethan.

He wasn't alone.

Chloe was with him.

She was clinging to his arm, looking radiant.

He was smiling at her. Whispering something in her ear that made her laugh.

He leaned down and kissed her temple.

A soft, tender kiss.

My heart ached. Not with jealousy anymore.

But with a strange kind of sadness.

He was capable of affection. Of tenderness.

Just not with me.

It solidified my resolve. I was doing the right thing.

I tried to leave quietly.

As I was heading for the exit, a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes stumbled.

He was bumped by someone in the crowd.

The tray tilted. Glasses flew.

Right towards me.

I gasped, tried to step back.

But someone pushed me from behind.

I was falling.

Suddenly, an arm shot out.

Chloe.

She had lunged forward, knocking the closest glass away from my face.

It shattered on the floor beside me.

But in doing so, she lost her balance.

She twisted, trying to catch herself.

Her ankle buckled.

She cried out, a sharp sound of pain.

And fell to the ground.

"Chloe!" Ethan's voice, sharp with alarm.

He was at her side in an instant.

The crowd gathered.

I just stood there, stunned.

Chloe had tried to stop the glass from hitting me.

She had gotten hurt because of it.

Ethan was kneeling beside her, his face creased with worry.

"Are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

"My ankle," she gasped, tears in her eyes. "I think... I think it's bad."

He looked up. His eyes found mine.

They were filled with fury.

"Ava!" he yelled. "What did you do?"

He thought I had pushed her.

He thought I had hurt her.

The injustice of it was a physical blow.