Chapter 2

The pain in my chest tightened suddenly.

I gasped, a cough tearing from my throat.

It was wet.

I pressed a hand to my mouth.

When I pulled it away, there was blood on my palm. Bright red.

Panic, cold and sharp, shot through me.

Not now. Not yet.

I stumbled back, away from the bedroom door, towards the guest bathroom.

My phone rang. Ethan' s name flashed on the screen.

My fingers fumbled with the answer button.

"What?" I managed, my voice weak, breathless.

"Where are you?" His voice was sharp, impatient, but with an undercurrent I hadn't heard in years. Concern?

"I... I don't feel well," I whispered, leaning against the wall.

Another cough, more blood.

"Sarah? What's wrong?"

The concern was unmistakable now. It was a painful echo of the past.

The Ethan who would drop everything if I even sneezed.

For a moment, I wanted to tell him. To break down.

"My chest... it hurts."

The line went dead.

A few minutes later, I heard his footsteps, fast, urgent.

He burst into the hallway, his eyes wide.

He saw me, saw the blood on my hand.

"Sarah!"

He rushed to my side, his face pale.

He was holding a small cake box from a bakery we used to love.

A strawberry tart. My favorite.

He' d remembered.

"What happened? Are you okay?" His hands hovered, unsure where to touch me.

The old Ethan was there, for a fleeting second, his eyes filled with raw fear.

My heart ached with a terrible, sweet pain.

This was dangerous. This momentary lapse in his hatred.

I had to fix it. Quickly.

I forced a weak, shaky laugh.

"Oh, Ethan. You should see your face."

I wiped my hand on a tissue from my pocket.

"Relax. It' s just a prank."

I tried to sound nonchalant, like a cruel child.

"A little fake blood. For drama. You know how I love attention."

His face changed. The concern vanished, replaced by a furious storm.

"A prank?" His voice was low, dangerous.

He stared at the strawberry tart in his hand.

Then, with a sudden, violent movement, he threw it against the wall.

The delicate pastry splattered, cream and strawberries sliding down the expensive wallpaper.

"You think this is funny?" he roared.

"You think my concern is a joke?"

His eyes blazed with a fresh wave of hurt and anger.

"After everything, you still play these sick games!"

He was shaking, his fists clenched.

"What is wrong with you, Sarah? What more do you want?"

Leo, startled by the shouting and the crash, darted out from under a table.

He meowed, a small, questioning sound, rubbing against my leg.

Ethan looked at the cat, then back at me, his face a mask of contempt.

"Get out of my sight," he spat. "Both of you."

He turned and stormed back towards the master bedroom, slamming the door.

The sound echoed through the silent house.

I sank to the floor, Leo purring anxiously, nudging my hand.

Tears streamed down my face, silent, hot.

It worked. He hated me again.

The relief was a bitter pill.

His absence in the following days was a blessing.

He stayed away. Slept in the city apartment, he told his driver.

It gave me space to manage the bleeding, the worsening pain, without his eyes on me.

Marcus, Ethan' s driver, sometimes looked at me with a quiet sympathy.

He was a kind man, caught in the crossfire.

He' d been with Ethan for years, had seen us in happier times.

One afternoon, he found me in the garden, struggling to catch my breath.

"Mrs. Hayes," he said gently, "are you alright? You look pale."

I waved a hand dismissively. "Just tired, Marcus. Thank you."

He hesitated. "Mr. Hayes... he's been seeing a lot of Ms. Moreau lately. Isabelle Moreau. From his company."

He looked uncomfortable, like he was betraying a confidence.

"She's young. Ambitious."

He was warning me. Trying to be kind.

I forced a smile. "Is that so? Well, Ethan has his needs. As long as the checks keep coming, I don' t much care who he warms his bed with."

Marcus looked disappointed. He probably thought I was heartless.

Good. That was the point.

My resolve hardened. I had to see this through. For Ethan' s sake.