Chapter 3

I came to on the cold marble floor, a throbbing pain in my head. The house was silent. I didn't know how long I'd been unconscious. I dragged myself up, my body aching and weak, and stumbled to the bedroom. I needed to get out before he came back.

But I was too late.

I heard the front door open, the familiar sound of his keys hitting the glass bowl on the entry table.

"Liv? You home?" Ethan's voice echoed in the cavernous-feeling house.

I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn't face him. Not now.

He walked into the bedroom and saw me standing there, pale and trembling. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"There you are. I was worried."

He moved to hug me, and the scent hit me. It was her perfume. A cloying, sweet scent that clung to his expensive suit. It was the smell of betrayal.

I flinched away from his touch.

He frowned, his smile faltering. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't speak. I just stared at him, at the man I had loved, the man who was a complete stranger to me. Tears I didn't know I had left began to stream down my face, silent and hot. I was mourning a man who never existed.

He didn't seem to notice how sick I looked, how my hands were shaking. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

"The launch was a massive success," he said, loosening his tie. "Willow is a genius. This app is going to change everything."

He talked about her, about their success, completely oblivious to the fact that my world had just ended.

It was only when he reached out to touch my face that he realized something was truly wrong.

"My God, you're burning up," he said, his hand flying to my forehead. His expression shifted to one of genuine, if fleeting, concern. "You're sick. Why didn't you say anything?"

He steered me toward the bed. "Lie down. I'll get you some medicine."

For a split second, a flicker of the old Ethan, the caring husband, was there. A part of me, the weak, broken part, wanted to believe it.

He went to the bathroom to look for the thermometer and some Tylenol.

Then his phone rang. The ringtone was a custom one, a soft melody I'd never heard before.

It was her.

He answered it immediately, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper.

"Willow? Is everything okay? ... What? The doctor said what? ... No, no, stay calm. I'm on my way. Don't worry about anything. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up and rushed back into the bedroom, grabbing his car keys. He had completely forgotten about my fever, about the medicine, about me.

"Something's come up at work," he said, his eyes avoiding mine. "An emergency. I have to go."

He was already at the door.

"Wait," I whispered, my voice hoarse.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, impatient. "What is it, Liv? I'm in a hurry."

The lie was so blatant, so insulting. He didn't even have the decency to come up with a believable excuse.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. He was rushing to the side of his pregnant mistress, who was probably having a minor panic attack, while his sick wife lay here alone.

"It's nothing," I said, my voice flat. "Go."

He left without a backward glance. The sound of his car speeding away was the final nail in the coffin of our marriage. I lay in bed, shivering, not from the fever, but from the bone-deep cold of being utterly alone.

I had to get out.

I remembered a family event. Ethan's grandfather's 80th birthday party was tonight at the family estate. I was supposed to go with him. Now, I would go alone. I needed to see them all, to face the nest of vipers that was his family.

I managed to get dressed, my movements slow and deliberate. I put on a simple black dress, a stark contrast to the festive occasion.

When I arrived at the Hayes mansion, the party was in full swing. Ethan's mother, Eleanor, saw me first. Her perfectly made-up face tightened into a mask of disdain.

"Olivia. You came alone? Where is Ethan?" she asked, her tone accusatory. "Don't tell me you two had a fight. You know how important tonight is."

For years, she had barely tolerated me. I was the barren wife, the woman who couldn't give her a grandchild.

"He was... detained at work," I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth.

Younger cousins whispered as I passed, their glances a mixture of pity and contempt. "Look at her. She never looks happy." "I heard she's very fragile." "Poor Ethan, he deserves a real family."

I had sacrificed so much for this family. I had given up my own career in art curation to support Ethan's. I had hosted their parties, remembered their birthdays, smoothed over their petty squabbles. I had been the perfect, dutiful wife. And for what? To be pitied and scorned behind my back.

Just then, Ethan strode in, looking harried but in control. He came straight to my side, putting a protective arm around my waist.

"There you are," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "I'm so sorry, darling. A crisis at the company. You know how it is." He turned to his mother. "Mom, don't bother Olivia. She's not feeling well."

He was playing the part of the devoted husband again, shielding me from his family's barbs. A month ago, this would have made my heart swell with love. Now, it just made me feel sick. I was numb. His touch meant nothing. His words were hollow echoes.

And then, the real show began.

The grand doors of the ballroom opened, and Willow Greene walked in.

She was dressed in a stunning, form-fitting red dress that accentuated her pregnant belly. She looked like a queen surveying her court.

All eyes turned to her. A wave of murmurs swept through the room.

I saw Ethan's face. He was shocked, horrified. This was not part of his plan. He had lost control.

Willow's eyes scanned the room and landed directly on me. A triumphant, malicious smile played on her lips. She walked slowly, deliberately, toward us. She stopped right in front of Ethan, placing a hand on his chest.

"Darling," she said, her voice full of mock sweetness. "I was so worried. I'm glad you're here."

She was publicly staking her claim.

Eleanor, Ethan's mother, stepped forward, her face a thundercloud. "Who is this woman? And what is the meaning of this?"

Before Ethan could answer, Willow turned to Eleanor, her smile widening. "You must be Ethan's mother. I'm Willow Greene. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Eleanor's eyes dropped to Willow's belly. The question hung in the air, unspoken but deafening.

"And this little one," Eleanor asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of hope and fury, "is it Ethan's?"