Chapter 2

Two years ago, I met Mark Miller at a job interview for my family's company.

I was a newly appointed assistant manager, trying to prove I could make it without my last name. I was nervous, and on my way to the conference room, my heel caught on the carpet. I twisted my ankle and sent a stack of files scattering across the floor.

People stopped, stared, and then walked around me. All except one.

Mark.

He knelt, his expression calm, and helped me gather the papers. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice steady and reassuring. It grounded me. He helped me to a chair and made sure I was settled before he went in for his own interview.

He didn't get the job. His qualifications were thin, his experience lacking. But I remembered his composure, his kindness in that moment of my own panic.

I made a call. I told my father' s HR director that I saw potential in him. Mark was hired the next day.

We started dating in secret. He was from a modest background, burning with an ambition that I found attractive. He wanted to climb, to prove himself. I wanted to help him. I used my knowledge of the industry to guide him, edited his reports late into the night, and celebrated his small victories as if they were my own.

"Ava, what would I do without you?" he would say often, holding me tight. "You're my everything."

I believed him.

My family was against our relationship. "He's not for you, Ava," my brother had warned. "He sees you as a stepping stone."

I didn't listen. I was in love. I married Mark against their wishes, in a small city hall ceremony. To avoid any accusations of favoritism at work and to fully dedicate myself to his career, I quit my job. I became what he would later call me-a woman fit only for managing the home.

I never imagined my unwavering trust would be rewarded with such a brutal betrayal.

The day after he rushed out on his "day off," I didn't stay home waiting for him. I spent the day at the public library, reading and planning. It was his birthday, and I knew from my past life that he was throwing a party for his colleagues at our apartment. A party I wasn't meant to attend.

I let my phone battery die.

When I returned home late that night, the apartment was dark. I assumed the party was over. I fumbled in my purse for my keys, then remembered I' d left them on the kitchen counter that morning.

I rang the doorbell.

A few moments later, the door opened a crack. It was Mark. His hair was messy, his shirt unbuttoned. When he saw me, the color drained from his face.

"Ava? What are you doing here?" he whispered, his body blocking the entrance. "Didn't I text you to come back later?"

"My phone died," I said simply.

Just then, a woman's voice, husky and familiar, called out from the bathroom. "Honey, who is it?"

It was Ms. Jenkins.

Mark' s eyes darted nervously back into the apartment. He turned back to me, his expression hardening into something ugly.

"Nobody," he called over his shoulder. "Just the junk collector."

He slammed the door in my face.

The click of the lock severed the last, fragile thread of affection I had for him. I stood there in the silent hallway, not with hurt, but with a profound, chilling clarity. The man I had given up everything for saw me as trash to be discarded.

I didn't knock again. I didn't scream. I simply waited.

About an hour later, the door opened again. Ms. Jenkins, looking smug and satisfied, walked out. She didn't even glance at me as she strutted towards the elevator, the keys to her BMW dangling from her fingers.

Mark found me sitting on the floor by the door. He rushed over, his face a mess of feigned concern and panic.

"Ava! There you are! It was all a misunderstanding," he began, the words tumbling out of him. "Ms. Jenkins just spilled some wine on her dress. She needed to use the bathroom to clean up, that's all."

I stared at him, my silence more powerful than any accusation.

He continued, his desperation growing. "Look, I'm in a critical phase of my career. It would ruin me if my colleagues knew I married a former employee from the company. It would look like I used you."

The irony was so thick it was suffocating.

I remembered a time, not so long ago, when he had stood on a crowded street and declared his love for me, not caring who heard. He had said he wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Now, he was ashamed to even admit I was his wife.

Love, I realized, could truly vanish overnight. Or perhaps, it had never been there at all.