Chapter 4

The humiliation didn't end there. After the disastrous introduction, Sarah's father tapped a glass for a toast. Once the pleasantries were over, Sarah took the floor. She stood next to Liam, beaming as if she were announcing a corporate merger.

"As many of you know," she began, her voice resonating with confidence, "Liam has been such an incredible part of my life, and an amazing father to our boys."

Our boys. She said it so easily.

"To show my appreciation," she continued, "I've decided to give him a small token of my gratitude." She handed him a sleek black folder. "That's the deed to a new house in the city, the keys to the new Range Rover in the driveway, and a credit card with no limit. For you and the boys."

A wave of shocked murmurs went through the crowd, quickly followed by applause. Liam kissed her on the cheek, a theatrical gesture of thanks. I stood frozen, a ghost at the feast, watching my wife give away a small fortune to the man she had cheated on me with.

But she wasn't finished.

"And one more thing," she said, pulling out another, thicker document. "The future of my company is very important to me. And so is the future of my children."

My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew what was coming.

"I have signed over fifty-one percent of my company's shares into a trust for Luke and Ben, to be managed by their father, Liam, until they come of age."

The room erupted. This wasn't a gift; this was a transfer of power. My company. The one I had poured my sweat and soul into for twenty years, helping her build it from a small startup into a multi-billion dollar enterprise. My ideas, my late nights, my sacrificed weekends. All of it, handed over to them. I was not just replaced as a husband; I was being erased from our shared history.

Liam caught my eye across the room. He draped his arm around Sarah's shoulders, pulling her close. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me, his eyes filled with a chilling mixture of pity and contempt. He had won.

I stumbled out to the patio, gasping for air. I grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bar and drank straight from it, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction from the inferno in my chest.

A few minutes later, the sliding glass door opened. It was Sarah. For a moment, a flicker of the woman I once knew appeared. Her face was soft with concern.

"Ethan, you're drinking too much," she said, her voice quiet. She gently took the bottle from my hand. She sat next to me, took out a handkerchief, and wiped a tear from my cheek that I didn't even know had fallen. She held a glass of water to my lips. "Drink this."

It was a cruel echo of a past self. The Sarah who had nursed me through the flu, who had held me after my father's funeral. For a split second, a desperate, pathetic hope flared within me. Maybe this was all a nightmare. Maybe she saw the wreckage and wanted to fix it.

"Sarah," I whispered, my voice raw. I reached for her hand. "Please. Tell me this isn't real. Tell me we can go back."

The moment I touched her, she stiffened. The warmth vanished. Her body went rigid, her face a mask of cold stone. It was like touching a statue.

The last ember of hope died. It was real. She was gone.

A blind rage, hot and absolute, surged through me. I shot to my feet and, with a guttural roar, swept my arm across the glass-topped patio table. Glasses, bottles, and an ice bucket crashed to the stone floor in a shower of crystal and ice. The sound was sharp, violent, and deeply, deeply satisfying.

I didn't look back. I just walked away, leaving her there amidst the glittering debris of our life.