Chapter 2

The decision was instant. I stood in the hallway for a moment longer, the email from Chloe glowing on my phone screen. It felt like a lifeline thrown into a dark ocean. Without hesitating, I typed back a reply.

"Chloe, it' s great to hear from you. I' m very interested. Send me the details. I' ll get my portfolio ready."

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. It was the first truly decisive action I had taken for myself in years, and a wave of relief washed over me. I was not just moving out; I was moving on.

I walked into our shared bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the top of the massive walk-in closet. As I started packing, my hands brushed against an old, framed certificate tucked away on a shelf. It was the "Young Architect of the Year" award I had won right after university. Victoria had been so proud then, or at least she had acted like it.

I remembered the night I won. She had stood on stage with me, her hand possessively on my back, a radiant smile for the cameras.

"With your talent and my vision, we' ll own this city, Alex," she had whispered in my ear, her voice full of what I thought was shared ambition. Now, I understood. My talent was just another asset for her to acquire, another tool to build her empire. My vision was never part of the equation.

The story of our marriage was not a romance; it was a business transaction I had been too naive to understand. We met at an industry gala. I was the promising young designer everyone was talking about, and she was the formidable Victoria Hayes, already a powerhouse in real estate. Her 'friend,' a cynical socialite named Isabella, had made the introduction.

"Victoria, this is Alex Miller. He' s the future," Isabella had said with a knowing look. "Alex, Victoria appreciates a man with a solid foundation."

Victoria needed a respectable, handsome husband to close a deal with a notoriously family-oriented investor. I was the perfect candidate. I was unaware, of course. I was just a young man swept off his feet by a powerful, beautiful woman. The rumors started almost immediately. People whispered that I was a gold digger, that I was using her to climb the ladder. I ignored them, believing our connection was real. I was a fool.

After we married, my career at her company, Hayes Development, became a gilded cage. My official title was Senior Architect, but my projects were consistently small and insignificant. I was tasked with designing parking garages and renovating lobbies while more junior architects were given the landmark projects, often using concepts I had pitched in meetings. Victoria kept me close, but she kept me down, ensuring I was never a threat, only an accessory.

I folded a few shirts and placed them in the suitcase, my movements methodical. I needed to get my favorite cashmere scarf, a gift from my late mother. It was the one deeply personal item I cherished, a soft, gray comfort I' d had for over a decade. I went to my section of the closet. It wasn' t there.

A cold dread washed over me. I knew, even before I walked back out, where I would find it.

I stepped into the living room. Ryan was lounging on the sofa, a cup of coffee in his hand. Wrapped snugly around his neck was my gray cashmere scarf. He saw me looking at it and a smug, proprietary smirk spread across his face. He deliberately adjusted it, his fingers stroking the soft wool.

The pain was not a hot flash of anger. It was a cold, sharp thing that settled deep in my gut. It was a violation that went beyond the affair. That scarf was a piece of my past, a connection to my mother. It was mine. And Victoria had given it away to her lover as if it were a meaningless trinket.

For years, my heart had been slowly numbing itself to her betrayals. I had convinced myself that I could endure the slights, the manipulation, the coldness. I thought I had built up walls so high that nothing could truly hurt me anymore.

I was wrong.

Seeing that scarf on him, a symbol of my most private memories being worn as a trophy by the man sleeping with my wife, broke through all my defenses. It was the ultimate statement of my worthlessness in her eyes. I was not just replaceable; I was erasable. My history, my sentiments, my very identity-all of it could be casually discarded and given to someone else.

In that moment, any lingering trace of love or attachment I had for Victoria died. It didn't just fade; it was extinguished, leaving behind an empty, echoing silence. I turned around without a word and walked back to the bedroom to finish packing. My escape was no longer just a plan; it was a necessity.