Chapter 3

A flicker of surprise crossed Ethan' s face at my calm acceptance. He must have expected tears, questions, hysteria. He didn' t get any of it.

That small, unexpected reaction gave me a sliver of power.

"Oh, Chloe, thank God," he said, his voice dropping into that familiar, vulnerable tone that used to make my heart ache. He reached out and took my arm.

His touch felt like a brand. I wanted to recoil, to scream, but I forced myself to stand still. As his fingers wrapped around my bicep, a sharp pain shot from the wound in my side, a violent, physical rejection of his presence. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from wincing.

"Let' s get out of here," he whispered, pulling me gently toward the door. "This place is too much for me right now. I just want to go home with you."

Home. He meant his small, run-down apartment that I had helped him paint. The one with the leaky faucet I' d fixed and the threadbare couch where we had spent hours talking, planning a future that was never real. The entire apartment was a stage, and I was the only audience member who had bought a ticket.

I let him lead me out of the lounge, my mind a cold, clear machine. Every step was calculated. Every breath was a conscious effort to maintain my composure. He hailed a cab, and I slid in beside him, keeping a careful distance between us on the worn vinyl seat.

The entire ride, he held my hand, talking in low, soothing tones about how grateful he was, how this money meant he had a future, a future with me. I stared out the window at the blurry city lights, the words washing over me like static. He was a good actor. I had to give him that. He never broke character.

Back at his apartment-the set-the illusion was even more jarring. I saw the cheap posters on the wall, the beat-up guitar in the corner, the small stack of bills on the kitchen counter that he' d pretended to stress over. It was all a lie. A carefully curated performance of poverty.

"I' m so tired," he sighed, collapsing onto the couch. "The stress of it all..."

I just nodded, walking into the tiny kitchen to get a glass of water. My reflection in the dark window was a pale, haunted stranger.

That night, I lay beside him in his bed, rigid and sleepless. He tried to pull me close, to wrap his arms around me. "I love you, Chloe," he murmured into my hair.

The words were poison. I felt nothing but a profound, chilling emptiness. The warmth of his body was a lie. The steady beat of his heart was a lie. I lay there for hours, listening to his even breathing, my own pain a steady, rhythmic pulse in my side. I was a ghost in my own life.

The first gray light of dawn crept through the blinds, and I knew I couldn't stay another second. I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. I gathered my purse and the thin jacket I' d worn. There was nothing else here for me.

As I was about to open the door, he stirred. "Chloe?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Where are you going?"

My hand froze on the doorknob. I had to think fast.

"I' m going to visit Mrs. Gable," I said, naming the director of the orphanage where I grew up. It was a plausible lie. She was the closest thing I had to a mother. "I wanted to tell her the good news about your treatment."

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "So early? Let me drive you. You look exhausted."

It was a test. To see if I was still the same devoted, trusting girl.

"No, it' s okay," I said quickly. "You need to rest. I' ll take the bus. I want you to save your strength."

He seemed to accept that. He lay back down, pulling the covers up. "Alright. But call me when you get there."

Just as I was about to slip out, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He glanced at the screen, and a subtle shift in his expression told me everything. He threw the covers off.

"Actually, something' s come up," he said, his voice suddenly sharp and business-like. "A last-minute meeting about the treatment logistics. I have to go."

He rushed past me, pulling on a shirt, his movements hurried. He didn' t even look at me as he fumbled with his keys.

"I' ll call you later," he said over his shoulder, stepping out into the hallway and pulling the door almost shut.

I stood there, motionless, as I heard his muffled voice through the thin wood.

"Yeah, I' m on my way now," he said, his tone impatient. "No, she' s not with me. She' s going to see that old woman at the orphanage... Yeah, I know. Just get the jet ready. I' ll be there in twenty. The little fool bought it completely."

The door clicked shut, and the lock turned.

I didn' t flinch. I didn' t cry. I just stood there in the fake, shabby apartment, the last echo of his deception confirming what I already knew.

He was gone. And for the first time in two years, so was I.