Chapter 2

The drive home was a blur. I parked the car in the garage of the house Ethan and I shared, a house I had designed myself. Every line, every window, every piece of furniture was a testament to a future that was now a lie.

My head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. I sank onto the sofa, the silence of the large house pressing in on me.

My mind replayed the last few months, searching for the signs I had ignored. The way Ethan' s phone was always face down. The sudden password protection on his laptop. The scent of a perfume that wasn't mine lingering on his shirts.

He' d had excuses for everything. "It's for security, babe, company policy." "That's probably from a client."

I had wanted to believe him. It was easier than facing the truth.

The real truth, the ugliest part, had come from his friend David a few weeks ago at a bar. David, drunk and loose-lipped, had clapped Ethan on the back.

"Man, I can't believe it," David slurred, grinning at me. "He finally got Chloe to work for him. He's been obsessed with her since high school. Always said she was the one that got away."

Then he looked at me, his eyes widening in a moment of drunken clarity. "Oh, man. I wasn't supposed to say that."

But he did. And Ethan's face, for a split second, was pure panic. He quickly laughed it off, dragging David away, but I had seen it. I had heard it.

Obsessed with her since high school. The one that got away.

So what was I? The consolation prize? The capable, convenient partner who could help him build his empire until his true love was available? David had even mentioned how Ethan's friends all thought Chloe was a "master manipulator," but Ethan never saw it. He just saw the girl he'd always wanted.

The sound of my phone buzzing on the coffee table jolted me back to the present. I didn't have to look to know who it was. The notifications were piling up. Missed calls and texts from Ethan.

I ignored them. My stomach churned with a mixture of nausea and exhaustion. I pushed myself off the sofa and walked into our bedroom. My bedroom now.

I set a mental timer. Three days. I had three days until I would leave this city and this life for good.

I opened the closet, a space filled with "his and hers" sections. My side was neat, organized. His was a chaotic mess. I started with my own things, pulling out suitcases from the top shelf. I moved with a methodical, detached calm. Sweaters, dresses, shoes. Everything went into the bags.

I would not leave a single thing for Chloe to touch, to discard, to claim as her own. This was my life, my history, and I would be the one to erase it from this house.

After an hour, my back ached and my head pounded harder. I was running on nothing but adrenaline and heartbreak. I sat on the edge of the bed, catching my breath.

I glanced at my phone. A notification from Instagram lit up the screen. It was a new post from Chloe. My finger tapped on it against my better judgment.

It was a picture of two coffee mugs, side by side on a desk. One was a sleek, modern design I had bought for Ethan last Christmas. The other was a cutesy one with a cartoon cat. The caption read: "Some people just fit together perfectly. #workhusband #soulmates"

The picture was taken in Ethan' s office. I knew because I had chosen the damn desk.

My eyes then focused on Ethan' s mug. It was part of a set. The matching mug, the "hers," was in my hand just this morning. I had bought them as a symbol of our partnership, our shared future.

He had told me he loved it. He had kissed me and said it was the most thoughtful gift he'd ever received.

It was all a performance. A carefully crafted illusion to keep me compliant, to keep me working, to keep me by his side until he didn't need me anymore.

I stood up, walked to the kitchen, and took my matching mug from the drying rack. Without a second of hesitation, I walked to the trash can and dropped it in. It shattered on impact, the sound echoing in the silent house.

One down.

Ethan didn't come home that night. Of course, he didn't. He was probably comforting Chloe, reassuring her that I was just being "dramatic."

The next morning, I drove to the office. Not our office anymore. My former office. I had paperwork to sign.