Chapter 2

I left the party and went home to the large, empty house that never felt like mine. The silence was a relief after the noise of the celebration. I walked through the dark rooms, my footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. This place was a monument to Ethan' s success, not our life together.

The next day, Ethan called a company-wide meeting. I was there, sitting in my usual spot as a senior architect. He walked in with Sophia, his hand on her arm, guiding her to the front of the room.

"Everyone," Ethan announced, his voice beaming with pride. "I have some wonderful news. Sophia Miller has agreed to rejoin the firm as a lead partner."

A wave of polite applause went through the room. My hands stayed in my lap.

"She will be taking over the lead on the new city center project," he continued.

My head snapped up. The city center project was my project. I had spent six months developing the concept, working late nights, pouring my heart into the designs. It was supposed to be my masterpiece.

Sophia smiled, a sweet, charming smile that didn't reach her eyes. She looked directly at me. "I'm so excited to pick up where Chloe left off. She's laid some... interesting groundwork." The way she said "interesting" made it sound like "inadequate."

I looked at Ethan, waiting for him to correct her, to say it was a joint project, to defend my work. He just smiled at Sophia, nodding in agreement. "I know you'll take it to the next level," he said to her.

Later that week, Sophia started dismantling my work. She called my designs "uninspired" in meetings, suggesting changes that completely altered my original vision. Ethan agreed with every single one of her suggestions. "A brilliant idea, Sophia," he would say, while I sat there in silence, my own ideas discarded.

She took my office, the one with the large window overlooking the city. "I just need the light to think," she explained with a dismissive wave of her hand. Ethan had it arranged immediately, moving me to a small, windowless space at the back of the hall.

It didn't stop there. She would "borrow" my assistants for her own errands, leaving me to do all the grunt work. She would take credit for small breakthroughs my team made. Every time I tried to speak up, Ethan would cut me off.

"Chloe, don't be difficult. Sophia knows what she's doing."

The final humiliation came during a press conference for the project. I was standing with the team when a reporter asked me a question about a specific design element. Before I could answer, Ethan stepped in front of me, physically blocking me from the camera.

"Sophia can answer that," he said, his voice cold. "She is the lead on this project. Chloe is just an assistant." He turned to me, his eyes hard. "Why are you even up here? Go get coffee for the clients."

The reporters' cameras flashed. I could feel dozens of eyes on me, a mix of pity and scorn. My face burned with shame. My husband, the man I had loved and devoted myself to for five years, had just publicly demoted and humiliated me in front of our entire industry.

But something inside me didn't break. It just went still. I looked at him, at his handsome face twisted with annoyance, and I felt nothing. No love, no anger, just a profound, quiet emptiness.

I didn't argue. I didn't cry. I simply turned around and walked away from the stage, my steps calm and even. I saw a flicker of confusion in Ethan's eyes as I left. He probably expected tears or a scene. He didn't get one.

I walked out of the building and didn't go back.

That night, my phone buzzed with notifications. The internet was flooded with news about the press conference. "Ethan Vance and Sophia Miller, architecture's golden couple, reunite for city's landmark project." There were pictures of them smiling together, looking perfect. Further down were articles about me. "Who is Ethan Vance's mysterious wife? Sources say she's a junior assistant who got lucky."

The comments were brutal.

I opened my laptop, typed up a divorce agreement, and attached it to an email. I sent it to Ethan's personal address. The subject line was simple: "Divorce."

Then, I started packing a single suitcase. I was ready to disappear.