Chapter 4

I stood on the curb, the city air thick with exhaust fumes, and justified my next move. This wasn' t just revenge. This was survival.

"Easton Jensen," his voice came through the line, crisp and professional.

"It' s Brooke," I said. "I' ve thought about your offer."

"My offer?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. I hadn' t actually let him make one yet.

"Your implied offer," I corrected myself. "To help. I' m taking the Apex deal to you. Officially. But I have conditions."

There was a pause, and I could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. "I' m listening. I assume this isn' t just a standard consulting gig."

"I want to lead the project," I said. "Full autonomy. And I want the title to reflect that. Chief Technology Officer of Nexus Dynamics."

"Done," he said, without a moment' s hesitation. The swiftness of his agreement almost knocked me off my feet. "Anything else?"

"You need to understand," I said, my voice hardening, "this is going to be a fight. Caleb won' t let this go easily. It will get ugly."

"Let him try," Easton said, a protective edge to his tone. "I' ll handle Caleb. You just focus on what you do best."

"I don' t need you to handle him for me," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "This is my fight. I just need the platform."

The line went quiet for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, more personal.

"Okay, Brooke."

A simple agreement, but it felt like a lifeline.

"Thank you, Easton," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"I' ll have HR send over the preliminary offer letter within the hour," he said, all business again. "Welcome to Nexus."

I ended the call and took a deep breath. One problem solved. A million more to go.

I hailed a cab and gave the driver my address. The apartment I shared with Caleb. My home. It didn' t feel like mine anymore.

I had no ring on my finger. No legal ties. Just ten years of a shared life that now felt like a fictional story.

But I did have one tie that mattered more than any piece of paper. The tiny, fragile life inside me. I placed a hand on my stomach.

This isn' t just for me anymore. It' s for you.

I got home before he did. The apartment was silent, filled with ghosts of a future that would never happen. I went straight to the bedroom and pulled out my suitcases.

I packed methodically, ruthlessly. Clothes, books, my laptop. I left behind everything he had ever given me.

In the back of the closet was a box labeled "Our Future." His handwriting. He' d made it last year, a place to put mementos of our journey. Ticket stubs from our first date, a dried flower from a forgotten anniversary, photos.

A part of me, the weak, heartbroken part, wanted to leave it. To not look back.

But the new part of me, the cold, calculating part, knew I couldn' t.

I sliced the tape with my thumbnail and lifted the lid.

My breath caught in my throat. On top of our memories was his second phone. The one I wasn' t supposed to know about.

It was unlocked. The screen was lit up with a constant stream of notifications from a messaging app.

I picked it up, my hands trembling.

The messages were from Krystal. Dozens of them. Hundreds. They went back months.

Krystal: Can' t wait to see you tonight. Wear that blue shirt I like.

Krystal: The old hag was so annoying in the meeting today. When are you finally going to get rid of her?

Caleb: Soon, baby. After the deal. I promise. Then it' s just you and me.

Krystal: You better mean it. I' m not sharing you or that corner office with anyone.

I scrolled and scrolled, each message a fresh stab of betrayal. They had been planning this for months. Using me. Laughing at me behind my back.

A wave of nausea, far worse than any morning sickness, washed over me. It was a physical sickness of the soul. I stumbled to the bathroom and retched, my body convulsing with the poison of their deceit.

When I was done, I looked at my pale, tear-streaked face in the mirror. The woman looking back was a stranger.

I walked back to the bedroom, picked up the phone, and with a steady hand, began forwarding every single message, every single photo, to my personal email account.

Proof. Hard, undeniable proof.