Chapter 3

Chloe Vanderbilt, back in Boston, single again, or so she claimed.

Her whirlwind European marriage had apparently imploded.

She wasted no time.

"Ethan, darling," she' d cooed at some charity gala a couple of months back, spotting him across the room. "I' m back. And I' ve missed you terribly."

Her intent was clear: reclaim Ethan, his status, his money.

She launched her campaign with the precision of a seasoned general.

Ethan, to his credit, initially tried to maintain boundaries.

"Chloe, it' s good to see you," he' d said, polite but distant.

He told me, "She' s an old friend, Sarah. Going through a tough time. I' m just being supportive."

His reassurances felt hollow, even then.

I saw the way he looked at her, the old spark, the familiar longing.

It was a temporary sense of security, quickly eroded.

Chloe escalated her tactics.

She was a social media influencer, a "lifestyle guru," and she used her platform.

Carefully curated Instagram stories started appearing.

Chloe and Ethan at a cozy cafe, "catching up."

Chloe and Ethan browsing an art gallery, "reminiscing."

Then came the "accidental" texts to me.

A picture of Ethan helping her set up her new, lavish apartment, him looking relaxed, smiling.

A "candid" shot of him comforting her after an alleged "panic attack," his arm around her shoulders.

Each one was a carefully aimed dart, designed to undermine me, to show me how easily he was slipping back into her orbit.

He' d rationalize it. "She' s fragile, Sarah. She leans on me."

My frustration grew, a knot tightening in my stomach. It was public humiliation by a thousand digital cuts.

His priorities were shifting, visibly.

Dinners at home became rare.

He was always "helping Chloe with something."

Helping her find a new agent. Helping her deal with "stress."

My needs, our marriage, diminished in comparison.

"You' re strong, Sarah," he' d say, a convenient excuse. "You understand."

I understood betrayal. I understood being devalued. Anger simmered beneath my calm exterior.

The final, undeniable proof came via a direct message from Chloe.

A short video clip.

Ethan and Chloe at another charity gala, the one he' d insisted I was too tired to attend after a long week at the archive.

They were standing in a softly lit alcove, away from the crowds.

He was looking at her with an expression I hadn' t seen directed at me in months, if ever.

Then, he leaned in and kissed her.

Not a friendly peck. A real kiss.

Chloe' s accompanying message was brief: "Just a sentimental moment between old friends. Thought you' d like to see how much he still cares. ;) "

The winking emoji was like a final twist of the knife.

I felt the air leave my lungs, a profound sense of betrayal washing over me.

The video was irrefutable.

My emotional collapse was swift and silent.

I sat on our bed, the phone clutched in my hand, the video playing on a loop in my mind.

The futility of my hopes, my efforts, crashed down on me.

He was still hers. He had always been hers.

I was just a placeholder, a convenient arrangement.

The weight of it was suffocating.

The dream of a real marriage, a real family, shattered into a million pieces.

It was a painful clarity, but a clarity nonetheless.

A new resolve hardened within me.

I wouldn't fight for a man who didn't want to be mine.

I wouldn't humiliate myself further.

Self-preservation. My own well-being. My future.

Those were the priorities now.

The decision to end it was firm, absolute.