Chapter 2

I drove for hours with no destination, the wreckage of Ethan's confession playing over and over in my mind. Eventually, I ended up at my mother's old vineyard, a place I hadn't visited since she passed away. The property was legally mine now, a silent inheritance I had yet to claim. Holding the deed in my hand, a piece of paper that represented a new beginning, I finally drove back to the house I shared with Ethan. It was no longer a home, just the scene of a crime.

I walked in quietly, carrying the deed. The house was dark, but a sliver of light escaped from under the office door again. I felt a sick sense of déjà vu as I crept closer.

His voice was low, but I could hear it clearly through the wood. He was on the phone.

With Ashley.

"She knows," Ethan said, his voice tight with frustration. "She knows about my legs. She heard me talking to Alex."

There was a pause. I imagined Ashley on the other end, her mind already spinning, already plotting.

"Don't worry," Ethan continued, his voice dropping to a soothing tone I knew all too well. "I can handle Chloe. The important thing is how you're doing. Did you take your medication? Are the kids feeling any better today?"

Kids? Ashley had kids? I hadn't spoken to her in three years, not since she ran out of that church with my fiancé.

"Just focus on getting better, Ash," he said softly. "I'm taking care of everything here. I made sure to 'accidentally' knock over that heavy vase yesterday when Chloe was reaching for a book. The scrape on her arm is deep enough. The hospital will have her blood type on file from the stitches. It's a perfect match, just like we hoped."

My eyes fell to my own arm. A white bandage was wrapped around my forearm. Yesterday, I had been shelving books, and Ethan, maneuvering his wheelchair, had supposedly lost control and knocked a large, heavy ceramic vase off its pedestal. It had shattered, and a shard had sliced my arm open. He had been so apologetic, so frantic with worry, rushing me to the emergency room himself.

He had insisted I get stitches. He had insisted they do a full workup, including a blood test, "just to be safe."

It wasn't an accident. He had hurt me on purpose. For Ashley.

"I'll get the full results from my contact at the hospital tomorrow," Ethan promised her. "We'll know for sure about the bone marrow compatibility then. Don't worry. I'll get it for you. For the children. I promise."

The world tilted on its axis. Bone marrow. They weren't just controlling me. They were planning to harvest me.

The door opened, and Ethan stepped out, his face immediately transforming into a mask of tender concern when he saw me. He was back in his wheelchair, the picture of helplessness.

"Chloe! You're back! I was so worried. You just ran out..." He wheeled himself toward me, his hands outstretched. "Are you okay? Your arm must be hurting."

The sight of his fake worry, his feigned love, was sickening. The man who had orchestrated my pain for three years was now pretending to care about a wound he himself had inflicted.

The weight of it all-the betrayal, the lies, the manipulation, the fresh horror of their ghoulish plan-was too much. The deed slipped from my hand and fluttered to the floor. My vision swam, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. The last thing I saw was Ethan's face, his feigned concern twisting into something else, something I couldn't decipher, as I crumpled to the ground.

I woke up in our bed. The morning sun streamed through the window. For a moment, a disoriented, foggy moment, I thought it had all been a nightmare.

But the bandage on my arm was real. The emptiness in the space beside me was real.

Ethan was gone.

A note was on the nightstand. 'Went to get you breakfast. Rest. We'll talk. I love you.'

The words "I love you" were a vile poison.

I got out of bed, my body aching. I walked into his office, the place where all my illusions had been shattered. I don't know what I was looking for. Proof? More lies?

On his desk, next to his laptop, was a small, leather-bound notebook. It was open. I had always assumed it was a journal, a place where he recorded his thoughts.

I looked at the page. It wasn't a journal. It was a log.

Every entry was about Ashley.

'Ashley's temperature today: 99.8°F. Slight cough. Reminded her to take her Vitamin C.'

'Spoke with Dr. Miller about Ashley's latest bloodwork. Platelet count is low. We need to move faster.'

'Kids had a good day. Leo's fever broke. Maya is still weak.'

Page after page of meticulous notes. Her health, her moods, her children's conditions. My name wasn't mentioned once, except in the context of the plan. 'Chloe's blood sample secured.' 'Chloe's compatibility test scheduled.'

I was a means to an end. A tool. A walking blood bag and bone marrow supply for the woman who had stolen my life.

He wasn't just protecting Ashley's happiness. He was obsessed with her. Every action, every word of "love" to me, every feigned moment of tenderness was a calculated step in his plan to save her. I wasn't even a person to him. I was a substitute, a stand-in, a resource to be exploited.

I closed the notebook. The last flickering ember of emotion I had for Ethan-the pity, the lingering gratitude, the memory of the man I thought he was-died out completely. There was nothing left inside me but a cold, hard emptiness.

He didn't love me. He had never loved me. He loved her.

The phone on his desk buzzed. A text from Ashley.

'Did you get it? Is she a match?'

I picked up the phone. My fingers moved before I even thought about it.

'Yes,' I typed. 'Perfect match.'

I set the phone down. I walked out of the office and out of the house. I didn't look back. The marriage was over. The lie was over. Now, the war was just beginning.