Chapter 4

I timed my return perfectly. I knew she and Liam had a weekly "strategy dinner" every Friday. I walked into the house, and there they were, sitting on the couch, heads close together. Liam was laughing at something she'd said, his hand resting casually on her knee.

They looked up, startled. Olivia's expression soured immediately.

"What are you doing back so early? I thought your physical therapy was an hour." She didn't bother to ask how it went.

Liam, ever the performer, plastered a look of concern on his face. He quickly removed his hand from her knee.

"Ethan, man, you okay? You look tired." He even took a step toward me, as if to help. The gesture was so fake it was insulting.

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

"Leave him alone," Olivia snapped, not at me, but at Liam. "He's just being moody. He needs to stop feeling sorry for himself." Then she turned her glare on me. "Are you just going to stand there? I'm starving. I thought you'd have dinner ready."

The entitlement was breathtaking. I had a shattered leg, I had just come from a grueling physical therapy session, and she expected a hot meal waiting for her and her lover.

"Sorry," Liam said with a practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We got caught up with work stuff. I should probably go."

"Don't be ridiculous," Olivia said, pulling him back down to the couch. "You're staying for dinner. Ethan can handle it."

She was marking her territory. Showing him, and me, who came first.

"Okay," I said again, the single word becoming my shield. I hobbled into the kitchen, their low murmurs and occasional laughter following me.

I decided to make one last meal in this house. Not for them. For me. It was a ritual of closure. I started making pasta from scratch, a process I'd always found therapeutic. It was the first dish I ever cooked for Olivia, back when things were good, back when I believed we had a future.

I could hear her in the living room, her voice soft and encouraging as she reviewed some documents with Liam. "No, that's brilliant, Liam. You have such a great mind for this."

I thought of all the business plans I had helped her with, the all-nighters I'd pulled. My contributions were forgotten, replaced by his.

Finally, the pasta was ready. I made two plates. I topped them with the rich, slow-cooked Bolognese sauce I had spent the afternoon preparing. I walked into the living room and placed one plate in front of Liam.

Then I took the second plate and sat down in the armchair across from them. I started to eat.

Olivia stared at me, then at the empty space on the coffee table in front of her.

"Where's my dinner?" she demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief.

"I only made enough for two," I said calmly, taking another bite. "I assumed you weren't hungry."

Her face turned red. It was such a small act of defiance, but it was the first time in years I had put my own needs, or even a symbolic gesture of my own needs, before hers.

"Are you kidding me?" she exploded, standing up. "After everything I do for you, for this family, you make dinner for my assistant but not for me?"

"He's your guest," I said simply. "It's polite to feed your guests."

The rage in her eyes was something to behold. It wasn't about the food. It was about the control. I had broken the pattern.

She stalked over to the coffee table, picked up Liam's plate, and before he could react, she hurled it against the wall. Pasta and sauce splattered everywhere.

"If I don't eat, nobody eats!" she screamed, her face contorted.

Liam jumped up, looking shocked. "Olivia, calm down!"

"Get out," she snarled at him. "Just get out!"

He looked from her furious face to my calm one, and then he scurried out of the house like the rat he was.

I didn't move. I just looked at the mess on the wall, the ruined food, the physical manifestation of her anger. I felt a profound sense of sadness, not for her, but for the man I used to be, the man who would have rushed to clean it up, to soothe her, to apologize for a crime he didn't commit.

She left a few minutes later, slamming the door behind her. I was alone in the silent house with the wreckage.

I cleaned it up. Not for her, but because I didn't want to leave a mess. As I was wiping the last of the sauce from the wall, her phone, which she'd left on the table in her haste, buzzed. It was a notification from a private messaging app I didn't recognize.

Curiosity, a familiar, painful friend, made me pick it up. It was a message from a contact named "My L."

The message read: "Don't worry about tonight. He's just a jealous loser. You're the one who matters. Let me know when you get home safe. I'll order us some real food. Love you."

I put the phone down. Even now, after everything, the casual "Love you" was a fresh wound.

Even though I was emotionally detached, my body still remembered the pain. My stomach clenched, and my hands started to shake. Healing was not a straight line.

I walked into the home office. On the clean, polished desk where she built her empire, I placed a single, thick envelope. Inside were the divorce papers Grace Chen had prepared.

On top of it, I left a simple note.

"I'm done. The house is yours. Everything is yours. Goodbye, Olivia."

As I walked out the front door for the last time, my phone buzzed. It was a text from her.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper. I'll buy you that jacket you wanted next week to make it up to you. We're okay, right?"

The offer was so small, so transactional, so completely oblivious to the real problem. It was laughable.

I didn't reply. I got into the rental car I had waiting down the street, put the key in the ignition, and drove away without looking back. I was finally, blessedly, free.