Chapter 2

The drive back from the airport was a blur of headlights and rain-slicked asphalt. Liam' s mind was a maelstrom of images, Chloe in her wedding dress, Chloe laughing with Ethan, the fake certificate in his hand. He was numb, running on pure adrenaline and grief. He didn' t see the truck that ran the red light until it was too late.

The world exploded in a symphony of screeching tires and shattering glass. His head slammed against the steering wheel, and then there was only darkness.

He woke up to the rhythmic beeping of a machine and the sharp, antiseptic smell of a hospital. A dull, throbbing pain radiated from his head and chest. He tried to move, but a sharp pain shot up his arm. He looked down and saw the cast. His phone was on the bedside table. He reached for it with his good hand, a flicker of some stupid, buried instinct making him want to call Chloe. To tell her he was hurt. To see if some part of her still cared.

Before he could dial, the phone lit up with a text from her. "So sorry, honey. The conference ran late. I' ll have to stay an extra day to wrap things up. I miss you terribly. Be good for me."

He let out a dry, humorless laugh that turned into a grimace of pain. He was lying in a hospital bed with broken bones, and she was on her honeymoon, sending him casual, loving lies.

A moment later, he heard a commotion in the hallway. A nurse rushed past his open door, followed by a doctor. He heard Chloe' s voice, high-pitched with worry. "Is he okay? Please, tell me he' s going to be okay!"

His heart gave a stupid, painful lurch. She came back. She found out he was in an accident and she came back.

But the person they wheeled past his door on a gurney wasn' t him. It was Ethan Vance. He had a small bandage on his forehead and was complaining loudly about his arm. And Chloe was right there, her hand clutching his, her face a mask of frantic concern. She was doting on him, smoothing his hair, her voice dripping with a genuine panic she had never shown for Liam.

Liam watched, invisible from his own hospital bed, as she followed Ethan to a private room down the hall. The betrayal was so profound, so absolute, it felt like a fresh wound tearing open his chest. He was in a car wreck, and she was here, in the same hospital, tending to a minor scratch on her new husband' s head.

The next day, against medical advice, Liam checked himself out. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in his soul. He couldn't stay there, in the same building as them. He rented a car and, driven by some self-destructive impulse, he drove to their home. Her car was in the driveway. He parked across the street, watching.

He didn't have to wait long. Chloe and Ethan came out of the house, laughing. Ethan' s arm was in a sling, and he was milking it for all it was worth, leaning against Chloe dramatically. She played along, wrapping her arm around his waist to support him. They looked like any young couple in love. They got into her car and drove off.

He followed them. He followed them to the park where he had proposed to her. He watched from a distance as they walked along the same path, Chloe pointing out the spot. He saw them stop at the ice cream shop they used to frequent, sharing a cone, their heads close together. Every shared memory he had with her was being overwritten, desecrated. It was a form of torture, and he was inflicting it on himself, needing to see the full extent of the lie.

The final stop was the worst. He followed them to a small, private art gallery downtown. Liam had built it for her. It was his wedding gift, a space for her to curate and display the work of up-and-coming artists she loved. It was named 'Chloe' s Gallery.' He' d poured millions into it, a testament to his love and support for her passion.

He watched them walk inside. Through the large glass front, he saw Chloe giving Ethan a private tour. She was gesturing to the paintings, her expression animated. She led him to the small office at the back, the one with the couch where they had... a wave of nausea washed over Liam. He saw her lean in and kiss Ethan, a long, lingering kiss right there in the middle of the gallery he had built for her.

That was it. The final straw. The love he had felt was curdling into something cold and hard.

He drove straight to his lawyer' s office. Sarah Jenkins was a sharp, no-nonsense attorney who had handled several of his corporate acquisitions. She looked up, surprised to see him.

"Liam. What' s wrong? You look terrible."

"I need to liquidate my assets," he said, his voice flat. "Everything. The house, the stocks, the art collection. I want to sell the gallery. And I need your help to change my identity."

Sarah' s professional demeanor softened. "Liam, what is going on? This is extreme."

"My marriage," he said, the words tasting like poison. "It was a fraud. Chloe was never my wife."

He didn' t need to say more. The look of shock and compassion on her face was enough. She nodded slowly. "Okay, Liam. Okay. We' ll start immediately."

That night, he went back to the house he once called home. It felt alien now, contaminated. He walked from room to room, a ghost in his own life. He opened a closet and pulled out a large box. Photo albums.

He sat on the floor and began to tear them apart. Pictures of them smiling on vacations, at holiday parties, in their backyard. He ripped each photo in half, then into quarters, his movements methodical and detached. He took the framed pictures off the walls and smashed them on the floor. He gathered every gift she had ever given him, every note she had ever written, and piled them in the fireplace.

He worked through the night, a grim, silent demolition of a five-year lie. He didn' t stop until every trace of her, of them, was reduced to a pile of shredded paper and broken glass.

The sun began to rise, casting a gray light into the wrecked living room. Chloe never came home. He knew where she was. He was finally, completely, alone.