Chapter 2

Chloe' s call came an hour later, summoning me to "The Velvet Rope," her favorite downtown club.

"Jake wants to see you," she' d slurred over the phone. "Get here. Now."

I knew what this was. It was another performance, another chance for her to humiliate me in front of her friends. For three years, this was our routine. But tonight was different. Tonight, I was no longer her prisoner.

When I walked into the club, the loud music hit me like a wall. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and spilled alcohol. I saw them immediately, holding court in a VIP booth. Chloe was draped over Jake, laughing at something he whispered in her ear.

She spotted me and her smile vanished, replaced by a familiar sneer.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she announced, her voice loud enough to turn heads. "Took you long enough."

Jake looked me up and down, a smug grin on his face. "Chloe, darling, your husband looks a little... rough. Didn' t you give him his five dollars today?"

The surrounding sycophants laughed on cue.

I said nothing. I just stood there, my hands in my pockets, and met their gaze. My silence seemed to bother Chloe more than any argument would have.

"What' s wrong with you?" she snapped, sitting up straighter. "Lost your tongue?"

"He' s probably just sad his mommy is in that cheap public hospital," Jake chimed in, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Isn' t that right, Ethan? If you weren' t such a failure of an artist, maybe you could afford a decent place for her."

The mention of my mother was a low blow, but I didn' t flinch. I just kept my eyes on Chloe.

She seemed to take my calm as a challenge. She picked up a full glass of red wine from the table.

"Jake' s right. You' re a disappointment," she said, her voice dripping with contempt. She stood up, walked over to me, and poured the entire glass of wine over my head.

The cold liquid streamed down my face, staining my cheap white shirt a deep crimson. The crowd gasped, then erupted into laughter.

I didn't move. I didn't wipe the wine from my eyes. I just stood there, letting it drip onto the floor.

Chloe stared at me, waiting for a reaction. Begging, pleading, anger-anything. I gave her nothing. My emptiness was a mirror, and I think for the first time, she saw a flicker of her own ugliness in it.

"Clean it up," she ordered, her voice a little shaky. She threw a cocktail napkin at my feet. "And then you' re going to get on your knees and apologize to Jake for being so pathetic."

For three years, I would have done it. I would have gotten on my knees. I would have apologized. I would have swallowed my pride for the five-dollar bill she would toss me later.

But today, I just bent down slowly, picked up the napkin, and began to calmly dab at my shirt. My movements were slow, deliberate.

My strange obedience unnerved her. "What are you doing? I said apologize!"

As I cleaned the stain, my mind drifted back. I remembered the one time Jake had spilled a drop of soup on his designer shirt at dinner. Chloe had leaped up, her face a mask of concern. She had dabbed at the spot with a silk handkerchief, cooing at him, apologizing as if it were her fault. She had ordered the kitchen to remake the entire meal for him.

For him, a drop of soup was a catastrophe. For me, a full glass of wine poured over my head was entertainment. The contrast was so stark, so cruel, it was almost absurd.

The lack of food for the past few days, combined with the emotional exhaustion, suddenly caught up with me. The club lights swam before my eyes. The music faded to a dull roar. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and the world went black.

I woke up to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of a machine. I was in a hospital room. The light from the window was dim; it was early morning.

Chloe was sitting in a chair by the bed, her arms crossed. Her party dress was wrinkled, her makeup smudged. She looked tired and, for a fleeting moment, worried.

"You' re awake," she said. Her voice was quiet, stripped of its usual venom.

"You fainted. The doctor said it' s severe malnutrition and exhaustion." She looked away, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "I didn' t know... I didn' t know you weren' t eating."

For a second, a tiny, stupid part of me thought this might be a breakthrough. That seeing me in a hospital bed had finally cracked her icy exterior.

I was wrong.

She took a deep breath, and the mask of the cruel, spoiled heiress slipped back into place.

"Listen," she started, her tone becoming businesslike. "Jake got into a little trouble last night. He was driving my car and... he hit someone. It wasn' t serious, but the police are involved."

I stared at her, waiting.

"He can' t have a DUI on his record. It would be bad for his image." She leaned forward, her eyes pleading in a way I' d never seen before. "I need you to take the blame."

I blinked. She wanted me to confess to a crime I didn' t commit. For Jake. After everything.

"You tell the police you were driving," she continued, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world. "You were upset about your mother, you took my car without asking, you had a drink. It all makes sense. My family lawyers will handle everything. You' ll get a slap on the wrist, maybe some community service. It' s no big deal."

It' s no big deal. The words echoed in the silent room. My mother was dead because of her reckless driving. And now she wanted me to take the fall for her new boyfriend' s reckless driving. The irony was so thick I could choke on it.

A slow, cold anger began to build in my chest, a feeling I hadn' t allowed myself to have in three years. It pushed out the grief, the exhaustion, the hopelessness.

I sat up slowly, my body aching. I looked her straight in the eye.

"No."

The word was quiet, but it hung in the air between us like a physical object.

Chloe' s eyes widened in disbelief. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, my voice stronger this time. "I won' t do it."

"Ethan, don' t be stupid. This is a simple request. I' ll even raise your allowance. Ten dollars a day. How about that?"

I almost laughed. It was so pathetic.

"I don' t want your money, Chloe," I said. "I want a divorce."

The shock on her face was absolute. It was as if the world had suddenly tilted on its axis. In three years, I had never defied her. Not once.

"A divorce?" she stammered, a hysterical laugh bubbling up. "You want to divorce me? You can' t divorce me! You' re nothing without me! You' re a broke, failed artist who would be living on the street if it weren' t for my family!"

"That may be true," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "But I' d rather be on the street than be your husband for one more day."

I stood up, my legs a bit shaky, and walked towards the door.

"Our contract is over," I said, not looking back. "I' m done."