Chapter 2

The decision to divorce was a single, clean cut, but the pain came in waves, each one dragging me back through the wreckage of our past. I left the house that night, checking into a sterile hotel room that felt as empty as I did. Alone, with nothing but the low hum of the air conditioner, the memories began to flood in, each one now twisted and poisoned by the truth.

"I love you, Ethan. You' re the only man who has ever truly seen me," she had told me on our wedding day.

I had believed her. God, how I had believed her.

I remembered the early days, when she was just a struggling actress with a pretty face and a mountain of ambition. I was a young tech entrepreneur, my first company just starting to take off. I wasn't part of her world, but I was captivated by her. I poured my resources into her career, not as an investment, but as a gift. I hired the best publicists, connected her with powerful directors, funded her passion projects. I did it because I loved seeing her shine.

I remembered one night, years ago, she came home in tears after a brutal audition. She was convinced she would never make it.

"Maybe I'm just not good enough," she sobbed into my chest.

I held her all night, telling her she was brilliant, that she just needed the right opportunity. The next day, I called in a favor with a producer I knew from a tech conference. A week later, she got the part that made her a household name. When she won her first award, she stood on stage and thanked her team, her agent, her director. She dedicated it to her mother. She never mentioned my name. At the time, I told myself it was because we wanted to keep our professional and private lives separate. Now, I saw it for what it was. I was the silent partner, the secret benefactor. The foundation she never wanted to acknowledge.

The memories kept coming, sharper and more painful.

I remembered her first major influencer deal, a multi-million dollar contract with a luxury beauty brand. The brand was hesitant, her image was still a bit rocky from some early party-girl rumors. I spent weeks personally meeting with the executives, leveraging the reputation of my own company to vouch for her. I practically guaranteed her professionalism. When the deal was signed, she celebrated by buying a new sports car. For herself.

Then there was the issue of children. In our first year of marriage, she was the one who brought it up.

"I can't wait to have a baby with you, Ethan. A little Miller," she'd say, her eyes sparkling.

We tried for a year, with no success. It was Chloe who suggested we see a doctor. She insisted she go first, to "make sure everything was okay on her end." A week later, she came back with a somber face and a folder of medical documents. She told me her results were perfect. It had to be me.

I went. I did the tests. The results came back, delivered by a doctor she had recommended. "Azoospermia," he said, a word that branded itself into my mind. Zero sperm count. Incurable. He was so sympathetic, so sorry. Chloe held my hand the whole time, her eyes filled with what I thought was shared sorrow.

"It's okay, my love," she whispered that night as I stared at the ceiling, feeling like less of a man. "I don't love you for your ability to have children. I love you for you. We have each other. That's all that matters."

It was the perfect, loving response. And it was a lie. A monstrous, calculated lie designed to cover her tracks. She hadn't just cheated on me. She had allowed me, encouraged me, to believe I was broken so she could hide her betrayal. The humiliation of it was a physical sickness, churning in my stomach.

The most recent memory was the most damning. Six months ago, a gossip blog posted a story claiming Chloe was seen meeting a man in a quiet town upstate. The article hinted at an affair. Chloe was frantic. She swore it was a lie, a setup by a rival actress.

"They're trying to ruin me, Ethan! You have to do something!" she cried.

So I did. I called my lawyer, my publicist. We threatened a lawsuit. I personally released a statement, taking the blame. I said I had been the one upstate, meeting a potential investor for a new secret project. I said Chloe was at home, and that I had used her car. I publicly painted myself as a work-obsessed, slightly neglectful husband to protect her pristine image. The media bought it. The story died. Chloe was saved.

I had sacrificed my own integrity for her. And she had let me. She had watched me lie to the world to cover up her truth. She was probably with him that very day. With him and their son.

Lying in that anonymous hotel bed, the pieces clicked into place. The late-night "charity meetings," the "girls' weekends" where her phone was always off, the vague explanations for large cash withdrawals from our joint account. It wasn't just a single mistake. It was a long-term, meticulously planned deception. A whole other life running parallel to ours, funded by my money, my love, my naivety.

The woman I had married didn't exist. I had been in love with a ghost, a character she was playing. And I was the biggest fool in her audience.