Chapter 1

The silence in our bedroom was a familiar weight.

Three years.

Our third wedding anniversary, and the space between us in the king-sized bed felt wider than the Hudson River.

I rolled over, the silk sheets cool against my skin. Tori lay on her side, back to me, a perfect, still silhouette in the dim glow from the city lights filtering through the curtains.

"Tori?" I whispered.

No response.

Her breathing was even, too even for sleep.

I reached out, my hand hovering over her shoulder. This was it, the night I' d try again. Maybe the anniversary would mean something.

"Tori, honey?"

I gently touched her arm.

She flinched, a small, sharp movement.

Then she turned, her eyes, usually a cool blue, were like ice chips.

"What do you want, Ethan?"

Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

"It's our anniversary," I said, trying to keep my own voice steady. "I thought maybe..."

I leaned in, hoping for a kiss, a touch, anything.

She recoiled, pushing herself further away.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, her lip curling. "Don't be pathetic."

The words hit me, a physical blow.

"Pathetic?"

"If you're that desperate, Ethan," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, "there are apps for that. Go find someone who's interested."

She turned her back to me again, dismissing me completely.

My face burned. Desperate. Pathetic.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the words echoing in my head. How had we gotten here? What had I done wrong? The questions swirled, unanswered, a familiar torment.

I got out of bed, the floor cold beneath my bare feet.

In the living room, I picked up my laptop. My fingers, almost on autopilot, typed in the address for a Reddit forum: r/DeadBedrooms.

I wasn't the only one.

Thousands of posts, stories of loneliness, rejection, confusion. It was a bleak comfort.

A soft sound drifted from the master bathroom. A moan.

My heart lurched. Was she...?

I crept closer, my breath catching in my throat.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar.

Through the crack, I saw Tori. She was sitting on the edge of the tub, her phone in her hand.

And she was moaning.

Blake' s name.

"Oh, Blake... yes..."

Her eyes were glued to her phone screen. I could just make out the familiar layout of Instagram. Blake Hudson' s Instagram. My "brother."

My stomach twisted. I stumbled back, a silent gasp escaping me.

Later, much later, after she' d fallen asleep, or pretended to, I saw her phone on the nightstand. Unlocked.

My hand trembled as I picked it up. I shouldn' t. This was wrong.

But I had to know.

Her group chat with Olivia and Chloe, her "squad."

My eyes scanned the messages, each word a fresh stab.

Olivia: "OMG, Tori, 1000 days of staying pure for Blake! You're a saint! Seriously, how much longer?"

Chloe: "Seriously, how does Ethan not know? He's such a clueless loser. Bless his heart."

Tori: "Just a couple more years. Secure that Hudson-Sterling tower deal, then DUMP him and finally be with Blake! The wait will be worth it."

My vision blurred. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the plush carpet.

Shattered.

That was the only word.

My past flashed before my eyes. Foster care in Philly, the rough streets, the constant fear. Then, the Hayes family. Charles and Abigail. Maine. Love, stability, a real home. They were my saviors.

Then, finding the Hudsons. My biological parents. Richard and Eleanor. New York real estate. And Blake. Always Blake. The golden boy, the one they doted on, the one they chose.

The Sterlings, Tori' s family, pushing her towards me. The real estate mega-project. The Hudson-Sterling tower. It all made a sick kind of sense now.

Tori' s "passionate pursuit."

Flying in my favorite Maine lobster bisque from that little place near the Hayes estate. Late-night calls, supposedly "supporting" me when the Hudsons made me feel like an outsider. "Saving" me from that minor public embarrassment Blake had orchestrated, the one the Hudsons had, of course, blamed on me.

It was all a performance. A long, calculated, cruel act.

I was a fool. A tool.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I flinched.

It was Abigail Hayes. My mom. My real mom.

"Ethan, darling? Just calling to see if you're packed for my birthday trip. The old house misses you."

Her voice, warm and genuine, was like a lifeline.

I couldn't hold it in anymore. A sob escaped me, raw and painful.

"Ethan? Honey, what's wrong? You sound terrible."

"Mom," I choked out, the word thick with unshed tears. "I... I can't do this. I'm so miserable."

There was a pause, then Abigail's voice, firm but gentle.

"I knew something was wrong. I' ve felt it for months. Don't you worry about a thing, Ethan. I'm arranging a private jet. It will be at Teterboro to pick you up in three days. You' re coming home."

Home. The word resonated deep within me.

"Okay, Mom," I whispered, a sliver of hope piercing through the despair. "Okay."

She knew. She always knew. And she had the power to make things happen. The Hayes family, quiet, discreet, but with resources that ran deeper than anyone in the flashy New York circles could imagine.