Chapter 3

The silence in the grand Hamptons living room after Ethan' s abrupt departure was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Eleanor and Arthur Gold exchanged a look. I knew what they were thinking. Their son, always so devoted to business. Or so they believed.

I felt nothing. No sting from their silent judgment, no ache from Ethan' s thinly veiled excuse.

Once, his fierce defense of me against them would have warmed me, made me feel cherished.

Now, it was just another scene in the elaborate play of our marriage, a play where I was beginning to realize I was the only one who hadn't read the full script.

My cryptic comment about a grandchild had bought me a temporary reprieve from their direct criticism, but the undercurrent of disapproval was always there.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, Sarah. Since Ethan has been called away, perhaps you can enlighten us further on this... potential grandchild."

His voice was gruff, but there was a new note of interest, almost eagerness.

The atmosphere during dinner was predictably strained.

Every clink of silverware on china seemed to echo in the vast dining room.

I picked at my food, the rich flavors tasteless in my mouth.

I knew what was coming. Eleanor was just biding her time.

Sure enough, as the dessert plates were cleared, she fixed me with her piercing gaze.

"Sarah, dear. About this grandchild. We are, of course, delighted at the prospect. But you must understand, the Gold lineage is paramount. We expect a healthy heir."

Her emphasis on "healthy" was a subtle, cruel jab at my past illness.

Before I could respond, Ethan, who had apparently just called his mother, was being put on speakerphone by Eleanor.

"Ethan, darling, Sarah was just telling us about the possibility of an heir," Eleanor trilled.

"Mother, we've discussed this," Ethan's voice came through, tight with annoyance. "Sarah and I will decide when the time is right for us. Her comfort and health are my priority."

I could almost hear Eleanor' s silent fuming. Arthur grunted.

"Of course, dear," Eleanor said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "We just want what's best."

Then, I did something that surprised even myself.

"Actually, Ethan," I said, my voice clear and calm, loud enough for him to hear over the phone, "I think your parents are right. Perhaps it is time we seriously considered starting a family. I'm willing, if you are."

A stunned silence fell over the room.

Even Ethan, on the other end of the line, was momentarily speechless.

"Sarah?" he finally said, his voice laced with confusion and a touch of concern. "Are you sure? We talked about waiting until the Paris gallery was established."

"I've been thinking," I said, meeting Eleanor' s astonished gaze. "A baby would be a wonderful addition to our lives."

Internally, I added, And Chloe is already well on her way to providing one, isn't she? The bitter irony was a cold comfort.

"I... well, that's... wonderful news, Sarah," Ethan stammered. "We'll talk more when I get back."

He sounded uneasy, thrown off by my sudden change of heart. Good.

Eleanor and Arthur were beaming. Their frosty demeanor had melted, replaced by an almost manic delight.

"This is splendid news!" Arthur boomed. "A celebration is in order!"

The rest of the evening was a blur of their excited chatter about nurseries and legacy.

Ethan called again, later that night, after his parents had retired.

"Sarah, what was that all about? Are you really okay with this?"

"Yes, Ethan," I said, my voice soft, deceptive. "I am. Don't you want a child?"

"Of course, I do. More than anything. But with you, Sarah. Only with you."

Liar.

He still sounded hesitant, a thread of suspicion in his voice. He knew this wasn't like me.

His unease was a small, satisfying victory.

His parents, however, were completely mollified. They treated me with a newfound warmth that was almost comical in its transparency.

The next morning, as I was packing to return to the city (Ethan was sending a car), his phone, which he'd accidentally left on the nightstand during his "urgent" trip, buzzed with a new message.

I glanced at it. A notification from Chloe. A picture message.

My hand hovered over the phone. I shouldn't.

But I did.

It was a selfie of Chloe, pouting, in what looked like a hotel room. The caption: "Missing you, E. Last night was amazing. Hurry back. ;)"

Last night. While he was supposedly dealing with a "crisis at the office."

My heart, which I thought couldn't break any further, splintered into a million tiny pieces.

A cold, calm rage filled me.

I started a silent countdown in my head. How long would it take him to realize his phone was missing and call it? Or would he just assume he' d misplaced it in his rush?

The car arrived. I left the phone on the nightstand. Let him find it. Let him wonder.

The drive back to the city was long. Ethan called the car phone, not his mobile.

"Everything okay, darling? Mom and Dad in better spirits?"

"Ecstatic," I said. "They're already planning the christening."

He chuckled, a nervous sound. "Good. Good."

When he picked me up from the car service drop-off point near our building, he was all smiles and relief.

"Sorry about that urgent business. All sorted now."

He leaned in to kiss me, and I caught it again – that faint, lingering scent of Chloe' s perfume on his jacket.

"Hard at work, were you?" I asked, my voice deceptively light.

He pulled back, a flicker of something – guilt? – in his eyes before he masked it.

"You know how it is. Always a fire to put out." He touched his nose, a little nervous tic he had when he was lying.

"You must be exhausted," I said, my voice flat.

"A bit. But seeing you makes it all better." He opened the car door for me.

As I slid into the passenger seat of his Bentley, my eyes fell on the center console.

A single, long strand of blonde hair. Chloe' s hair.

And a receipt from a high-end lingerie store, dated yesterday.

The pain was a physical thing, a crushing weight on my chest.

"You seem to have been shopping," I said, my voice barely a whisper, gesturing to the receipt.

He glanced at it, then back at me, his face a mask of confusion. "Oh, that. Yes, a little something for you. For our anniversary."

Liar. He was such a prolific, shameless liar.

He reached for me, his hand warm on my arm. "Are you okay, Sarah? You seem distant."

I recoiled from his touch as if burned. "I'm fine. Just tired."

The air in the car felt thick, suffocating. I wanted to scream, to rage, to claw at him.

But I didn't. I sat there, silent, a cold, hard knot forming in my stomach.

This was it. The point of no return.

There would be no reconciliation, no forgiveness.

There would only be an ending. A very public, very painful ending for him.

And for me? Liberation.

I looked out the window at the city blurring past, my reflection a pale, determined ghost.

The gilded cage was about to be shattered. And I would be the one holding the hammer.