Chapter 2

Later that day, I was summoned to Ethan' s private office suite.

Not for work. Tiffany was there.

She lounged on his custom-made Italian leather sofa, scrolling through her phone, a smirk playing on her lips.

Ethan stood by his panoramic window, looking out over the city he owned.

"Ava, just the person," Tiffany said, her voice syrupy sweet, a tone she never used when Ethan wasn't present.

My eyes fell on my keepsake box.

It was on Ethan' s massive mahogany desk. Open.

My journals. My sketches. The pressed flower. Spilled out.

My heart stopped.

"Look at this, Ethan," Tiffany chirped, picking up a journal. "Little Ava' s been quite the secret admirer. So many pictures of you. And little love notes. How... pathetic."

Ethan turned. His gaze, cold, indifferent, swept over the contents, then to me.

He picked up a sketch I' d done of him, a hopeful, youthful rendering.

A small, cruel laugh escaped him. "Pathetic is the word, Tiffany."

He then looked at the box itself, the worn wood. "And this cheap thing. Where did you even find it?"

"It's trash, darling," Tiffany cooed, "Just like her little obsession."

Ethan nodded slowly, a glint in his eyes I knew too well.

It was the same look he had when crushing a business rival.

He gathered my treasures-my life, my history, my secret heart-and walked towards the industrial-grade, high-security shredder in the corner of his office.

"No," I whispered, a choked sound.

He didn' t look at me.

He fed my journals, my sketches, the photos, the pressed flower, into the machine.

The shredder whirred, a monstrous sound devouring my soul.

Then, he tossed the empty wooden box after them.

The crunch of wood splintering was the loudest sound I' d ever heard.

I stood frozen, watching the tiny, confetti-like pieces of my life flutter into the collection bin.

This was it. The 99th act.

The final one.

My resignation letter was in my hand. It felt heavy, useless now.