Chapter 4

Back in the penthouse, the air still felt tainted by Chloe' s presence.

She was lounging on the sofa in the living room, flipping through a magazine, looking completely at home.

She looked up as we entered, her eyes flicking from Ethan to me, a smug little smile playing on her lips.

"Oh, hi. You're back early."

"Chloe," I said, my voice tight. "I wasn't aware you were still... staying."

"Ethan insisted," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "He was worried about me being all alone after our... chat last night."

She stretched languidly, like a cat, her eyes meeting mine in a silent challenge.

Last night. The night he was supposedly in the Hamptons with me, before his "urgent business."

A wave of nausea hit me. The pain in my chest intensified, a dull, throbbing ache.

I needed to know. I needed to hear it, as ugly as it was.

"Chat?" I asked, feigning ignorance. "What chat was that?"

Chloe' s smile widened. "Oh, you know. Just girl talk. Ethan was so sweet, listening to all my silly problems." She glanced at Ethan, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable. "He even tucked me into bed. Didn't you, E?"

Tucked her into bed. In my home. Possibly in my bed.

The timeline was a brutal confirmation. He had left the Hamptons, rushed to her, spent the night with her, then bought her lingerie, before calmly picking me up.

The depth of his betrayal, the sheer audacity of it, was breathtaking.

My head spun. I felt a tremor run through my body, a physical manifestation of the emotional earthquake tearing me apart.

Ethan stepped forward, his hand on my arm. "Sarah, are you alright? You look pale."

His touch was repulsive. I pulled away.

"I just need to lie down," I mumbled, turning towards the bedroom.

I needed to escape, to breathe, to think.

But the universe, it seemed, had other plans.

I' d forgotten my evening clutch in the home office from the other day. I needed my lip balm.

I turned back, heading for the office.

The door was ajar. I heard sounds. Soft, rhythmic.

Moans.

My blood turned to ice.

I pushed the door open.

There, on the large mahogany desk, my desk, amidst scattered papers and files, was Ethan.

And Chloe.

She was straddling him, her back to me, her blonde hair fanned out.

His hands were on her hips, his head thrown back.

They didn't hear me enter.

"Oh, Ethan," Chloe moaned, her voice husky. "You're so much better than him. So much stronger."

"Whose are you?" Ethan growled, his voice thick with lust.

Chloe giggled, a triumphant, malicious sound. Then, she turned her head, just slightly.

Her eyes met mine over her shoulder.

A spark of pure, unadulterated triumph flashed in them. A smirk.

She knew I was there. She wanted me to see.

"Yours, Ethan," she purred, loud enough for me to hear clearly. "Only yours."

Then she leaned down and kissed him, a deep, possessive kiss.

I stumbled back, a strangled cry caught in my throat.

The image burned into my brain, a searing, indelible brand.

My husband. The other woman. On my desk. In my home.

I fled, blindly, back to the bedroom, the sounds of their passion chasing me.

I collapsed onto the bed, a storm of emotions raging within me.

Pain, so intense it was physical. Humiliation, hot and searing.

And a fury so cold, so absolute, it was terrifying.

Ethan had always been possessive, jealous.

Years ago, a male colleague had been overly friendly, lingering a little too long by my desk at the gallery.

Ethan had seen it. His reaction had been swift and chilling.

A quiet word with the gallery owner, and the colleague was suddenly "reassigned."

He never wanted other men looking at me, talking to me, wanting me.

I had, foolishly, seen it as a sign of his deep love, his fierce protectiveness.

I had curtailed my friendships, avoided even the appearance of impropriety, all to appease his possessiveness.

All to make him feel secure.

The hypocrisy was a bitter pill. He could demand absolute fidelity from me, police my every interaction, yet he felt entitled to his own sordid affairs.

The man I thought I knew, the man I loved, was a monster of selfishness and deceit.

I lay there for what felt like hours, emotionally drained, numb.

Later, Ethan came into the bedroom. He was freshly showered, wearing a silk robe.

He carried a tray with a glass of warm milk and cookies.

"Feeling any better, my love?" he asked, his voice soft, concerned.

He set the tray on the nightstand, then sat on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair.

"I was worried about you. You seemed so upset earlier."

His tenderness, his feigned concern, was grotesque.

How could he touch her, then touch me, with such casual, unblemished affection?

Did he have no conscience? No shame?

I looked at him, at his handsome face, his eyes full of "love."

He was a brilliant actor. So convincing.

For a fleeting moment, a crazy thought: maybe I had imagined it. Maybe the scene in the office was a hallucination, a product of my stress and suspicion.

But no. Chloe' s triumphant smirk was too real.

The sounds were too real.

The ache in my heart was too real.

Sleep was impossible that night. I tossed and turned, the images replaying in my mind.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Ethan stirred beside me.

He moaned, a sound of distress. He was having a nightmare.

He reached for me, his arms wrapping around me in a desperate, clinging embrace.

"Don't leave me, Sarah," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and fear. "Please, don't ever leave me."

Even in his sleep, his fear of losing me was palpable.

But it wasn't love. It was ownership. Control.

I lay rigid in his arms, my heart a stone in my chest.

Soon, I thought. Soon, I will leave you. And you will know what it truly means to lose everything.

The next morning, he insisted I accompany him to his office at Gold Holdings.

"I can't bear to leave you alone when you're not feeling well," he said, his brow furrowed with concern. "You can relax in my private lounge. I'll have them bring you anything you need."

It was another attempt to control me, to keep me under his watchful eye.

I agreed, too weary to argue, and because it suited my budding plan.

His office was a monument to power and success. Panoramic city views, expensive art (some of which I had sourced for him), plush leather furniture.

A large, framed photo of us, smiling, on his desk. Our wedding day.

It mocked me.

"I keep this here to remind me of what's truly important," he said, noticing my gaze.

He gestured around the opulent room. "All this... it means nothing without you, Sarah."

Lies. All lies.

I sat in his private lounge, a smaller, more intimate space adjoining the main office, furnished with a comfortable sofa and a well-stocked bar.

He had a series of meetings. I could hear the muffled sounds of his voice, authoritative, decisive.

The powerful CEO. The devoted husband.

What a sham.

I wandered aimlessly, picking up expensive trinkets, staring blankly at the abstract paintings.

My phone buzzed. An unknown number.

I answered.

"Mrs. Gold? Sarah Miller Gold?" A crisp, professional voice.

"Yes?"

"This is Jean-Luc Dubois, from the Galerie Dubois in Paris. We received your preliminary proposal for the annex. We're very interested. We'd like to schedule a call to discuss the next steps for a formal partnership."

Paris. My dream. A lifeline.

A small, genuine smile touched my lips for the first time in days. "That's wonderful news. When would be a good time?"

We were arranging a time when Ethan burst into the lounge, his face pale, alarmed.

"Sarah? Who are you talking to? What proposal?"

He must have overheard. His paranoia was always on high alert.