Chapter 1

The glossy pages of "Manhattan Magnate" magazine lay open on the marble island, Ethan' s face smiling out from the cover, all charm and success.

"Nexus Innovations CEO Ethan Hayes: The Future is Now," the headline screamed.

Inside, a two-page spread detailed his latest "philanthropic" venture.

He planned to bid on a lost manuscript by Sarah' s favorite obscure poet at a high-profile auction.

The article painted it as a grand gesture of devotion to his lovely wife, Sarah Miller.

A testament to the modern power couple.

Sarah traced the outline of his jaw on the photograph, her finger cool against the paper.

Publicly, Ethan was the doting husband, the visionary, the man who had everything, including the perfect marriage.

She remembered the journalist asking her, "Mrs. Hayes, what's it like being married to a genius who so clearly adores you?"

Sarah had smiled, said the right words, felt like an actress in a well-rehearsed play.

The penthouse was silent, a vast expanse of glass and steel overlooking Central Park.

Luxury, they called it.

Sarah felt the chill of the marble through her thin silk robe.

It felt more like a beautiful, empty museum.

Ethan' s grand gestures, like funding that small literary magazine she once loved, always came with a press release.

They felt performative, designed for an audience, not for her.

Her mind drifted back to Columbia, to the intensity of his pursuit.

Ethan Hayes, already marked for Wall Street, had been dazzling.

He' d told everyone he "gave up" a lucrative internship to start Nexus Innovations.

The idea for Nexus, a platform to connect artists with patrons, had been hers, a half-formed thought shared late one night in the campus library.

He' d taken it, molded it, made it his.

She' d been proud then, a little awestruck.

He often reminded her of that time, of his "sacrifice."

And he always, always brought up her father.

Professor Miller, a decorated history academic who lived modestly, had fallen ill so suddenly, years ago.

Ethan had been her rock, or so he said.

He' d handled the calls, the doctors, the bills that seemed to appear from nowhere, shielding her from the worst of it.

"I was there for you, Sarah, when no one else was," he' d say, his voice soft, a reminder of her debt.

He' d been there, yes, but the memory was now tinged with something else, something she couldn't quite name but felt like a carefully constructed chain.

Each link was a past kindness, a past "sacrifice," holding her in place.

The article called the manuscript bid a "poetic tribute."

Sarah knew it was another performance, another way to ensure the world saw Ethan Hayes exactly as he wanted to be seen.

And her, his cherished, supportive wife, by his side.

She closed the magazine, the weight of his public perfection settling heavily in the quiet room.

The poet he was "honoring" wrote about escape, about finding truth in desolation.

Sarah understood that.