Chapter 2

The next day, while Chloe was at "work," I went back to the house we shared. Our house. The place where we had built a life, or so I had thought. The air was thick with her presence, her scent, her things. It was suffocating.

I walked into our bedroom and opened the closet. My side was neat, organized. Her side was a chaotic explosion of designer clothes and expensive shoes. I started there. I pulled out a suitcase, not one of mine, but one of her expensive ones, and began to pack my things. My hands moved mechanically. Shirts, pants, the worn-out sweater she always said she loved. Each item felt like a relic from a dead life.

She came home early, catching me with the open suitcase on the bed.

"Ethan? What are you doing?" she asked, her voice light, but I saw the flicker of panic in her eyes.

"Just getting some old clothes to donate," I lied smoothly. "Figured I'd clean out the closet."

She seemed to accept it, her shoulders relaxing. "Oh! That's a good idea." She walked over and dropped a small, elegantly wrapped box on the bed. "I got you something."

I looked at the box, then at her beaming face. I didn't want it. I didn't want anything from her.

"Open it," she urged.

I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, was a tie clip. It was sleek, silver, and engraved with the logo of a famous brand. A brand I knew Daniel favored. I remembered seeing him in old pictures wearing their stuff. It was a gift for her new man, not for me. Maybe she bought two, to cover her tracks. The thought was so disgusting I had to clench my jaw to keep from saying something.

"It's for the wedding," she said. "Whenever it happens. It will look so good with your suit."

I picked it up. It felt cold and heavy in my hand. "It's nice," I said, my voice flat.

She leaned in to kiss me, and that's when I saw it. A faint, reddish mark on her neck, just below her ear, partially hidden by her hair. A hickey. It wasn't from me. My stomach turned over, the rage from the day before roaring back to life, hot and violent.

She didn't notice my silence. She chattered on about her day, about the project that was supposedly so demanding. I just stared at the mark on her neck, a blatant sign of her betrayal.

After she went to take a shower, I walked into the living room. On the mantelpiece was a framed photo of us from our engagement party. We were smiling, happy, surrounded by friends. It was all a lie.

I picked up the photo, my knuckles white. And then, I did something I never thought I was capable of. I smashed it. I brought the frame down hard on the edge of the fireplace hearth. Glass sprayed across the floor. The sound was loud and violent in the quiet house. It felt good. It was a release, a small crack in the dam of my control.

I looked at the shattered picture, at our smiling faces, now torn and broken. This was us now. This was the truth.

I thought back to the night I proposed. We were on a trip to the coast. I had hired a string quartet to play a piece I wrote for her. I got down on one knee as the sun set over the ocean. She had cried, her hands covering her mouth in a perfect picture of surprise and joy.

"Yes, Ethan, a million times yes!" she had said. "I swear I will love you and only you, forever."

Forever. Her forever had a very short expiration date.

I had always believed in loyalty. It was the bedrock of my world, the one non-negotiable rule. You don't cheat. You don't lie. You don't betray the person you claim to love. It was simple. For her, it was clearly more complicated.

I left the broken frame on the floor. I didn't care if she saw it. Let her wonder. I went back to the bedroom, grabbed my half-packed suitcase, and walked out of the house without a backward glance. I wasn't donating old clothes. I was getting rid of my old life.