Chapter 2

I woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of a machine. My eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light of a private hospital room. Olivia was asleep in a chair beside the bed, her head slumped to one side, her usually perfect hair slightly disheveled. For a moment, my heart ached with a familiar longing. She was here. She cared.

Then the memory of the party crashed back into me. Marcus Thorne' s smirk, his hand on her back, the public humiliation. The ache in my heart soured into a bitter self-mockery. She was here because she had to be. It was her duty.

Our marriage had been a transaction from the start.

I flashed back to three years ago, to the day after my father' s funeral. I was a mess, a twenty-one-year-old who had just lost his only parent. Olivia, his most brilliant and trusted student, came to see me. She stood in my father' s study, looking out of place and uncomfortable.

"Your father," she began, her voice formal, "he asked something of me before he passed. A promise."

I just stared at her, numb with grief.

"He was worried about you, Ethan," she continued, avoiding my eyes. "He asked me to... to look after you."

I hadn't understood. "Look after me? How?"

She finally met my gaze, and I saw a deep reluctance in her intelligent eyes. "He thought it would be best if we were married."

The words hung in the air, absurd and shocking. I was in love with her, of course. I' d had a crush on the brilliant, beautiful Dr. Hayes since my first day in her advanced computer science seminar. But this? A marriage born from a deathbed promise? It was a farce.

But I was young, grieving, and desperately clinging to any connection to my father. And I was hopelessly infatuated with her. So I agreed. I let myself believe that this forced proximity could eventually blossom into real love.

For three years, I had tried. I had celebrated her academic achievements, supported her career, managed our home, and founded my company, all while trying to earn her affection. The brief moment last week, when she' d agreed to start a family, had felt like the ultimate validation. Now, I saw it for what it was: another concession, another fulfillment of a promise. Not an act of love.

I looked at her sleeping form again, and a cold resolve settled over me. I couldn't do this anymore. I couldn't live as a child she was obligated to care for.

I gently slid my hand out from under the blanket and disconnected the IV drip from my arm. The needle pricked my skin, a small, sharp pain that focused my mind. I stood up, my legs a little weak, and found my clothes folded neatly on a chair.

Olivia stirred as I was buttoning my shirt. Her eyes blinked open, hazy with sleep. "Ethan? What are you doing? You should be resting."

"I'm fine," I said, my voice flat.

She stood up and walked over, trying to put a hand on my forehead. I flinched away from her touch.

Her hand dropped to her side. "What's wrong?"

"Olivia," I said, turning to face her fully. "Let's get a divorce."

The words came out more calmly than I expected. They landed in the quiet room with a deafening finality.

Her face went pale. For a moment, she looked utterly lost. "Divorce? What are you talking about? You fainted. You're not thinking clearly."

"I've never been more clear in my life," I said, pulling on my shoes. "I'm ending this. For both of us."

I walked out of the hospital room without looking back. I took a taxi to our apartment, the home I had meticulously decorated, trying to make it a place she would want to come back to. I walked straight to my study, ignoring the photos of us on the mantelpiece-hollow-eyed smiles from a wedding album that felt like a lie. I pulled out the prenuptial agreement and the marriage certificate. Then I grabbed a bag and packed a few changes of clothes. Nothing else. I didn't want any of it.

For the next two days, I holed up in a cheap motel on the other side of town. I turned off my phone, ignoring the world. I needed silence. I needed to suffocate the voice in my head that kept replaying the image of her smiling at Marcus.

On the third day, there was a loud banging on my motel room door.

"Ethan Miller! Open up! It's Dave!"

I ignored it. The banging got louder.

"Ethan, I know you're in there! Olivia is worried sick! She called me, said you disappeared from the hospital!"

Finally, the door lock clicked, and the door swung open. The motel manager stood there with a master key, looking apologetic. Behind him stood my partner, Dave, and behind Dave, looking pale and frantic, was Olivia.

She pushed past Dave and rushed toward me. "Ethan! My God, what are you doing in a place like this? Are you trying to worry me to death?"

Her words, meant to sound like concern, felt like another condescending reprimand. She wasn't worried about me, her husband. She was worried about the charge her professor had left her, the boy who was acting out.

"I'm not a child, Olivia," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

"Then stop acting like one!" she shot back, her composure cracking. "Running away? Hiding in a motel? What is this?"

I pulled the divorce papers from my bag. I had already signed my name on the relevant lines. I pushed them into her hands. "This is me ending it. I'm letting you off the hook. You don't have to keep your promise to my father anymore. You're free."

The words were meant to sound liberating, but they came out laced with a deep, cutting bitterness.

She stared at the papers in her hands, her eyes wide with disbelief. Then, her expression hardened. "No," she whispered.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I said no!" Her voice rose, sharp and high. In a sudden, violent movement, she ripped the papers in half, then in half again, the sound tearing through the silent room. She threw the shredded pieces on the floor.

"I will not divorce you, Ethan," she declared, her chest heaving. "I made a promise."

I looked at the confetti of our broken marriage on the dirty motel carpet, and a wave of helpless laughter rose in my throat. It was never about me. It was never about us. It was always about the promise.