Chapter 2

Ariel Bryant POV:

My fingers trembled as I sent the messages, a cocktail of fury and nausea churning in my stomach. I was Ariel Bryant, a graphic designer who created beauty out of chaos, a wife who had built her life around love and trust. I was not the kind of woman who found herself in a sordid, late-night text exchange with her husband' s mistress. I never thought I would be.

The three dots on Kiersten' s chat bubble disappeared, then reappeared. She was crafting her response, choosing her words with the same precision she probably used on her blueprints.

Finally, a message appeared. It was simple, chillingly direct.

`Kiersten: Come see for yourself.`

An address followed. It was for a high-end condo building downtown, one of the new, ultra-modern glass towers Clayton had recently praised in an architecture magazine.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down.

Without a second thought, I scrambled to my feet. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through me, and I had to grip the back of the sofa to steady myself. Ignoring the protest of my aching body, I stumbled to the bedroom, pulling on the first pair of jeans and a sweater I could find. I didn't bother with makeup; the pale, hollow-eyed woman staring back at me from the mirror was a stranger anyway.

The drive downtown was a blur of slick streets and traffic lights bleeding into the pre-dawn gloom. My mind was a chaotic storm of questions. What would I say? What would I do? A part of me, the rational, tired part, screamed at me to turn back, to handle this with dignity, to wait until Clayton came home and offered whatever pathetic excuse he had concocted.

But the wounded part of me, the part that had just watched her life burn down in a series of JPEGs, needed to see the arsonist.

I pulled into the guest parking of the sterile, imposing building. As I walked toward the lobby, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. The back door opened, and Clayton stepped out.

He wasn't alone.

Kiersten Lowe emerged after him, a vision of youthful energy. She wore a tailored coat that accentuated her slim figure, and her hair, a cascade of dark silk, bounced with every step. She was radiant, healthy, vibrant-everything I felt I wasn' t.

She laughed at something he said, a bright, carefree sound that the wind carried directly to me. Clayton smiled back, a genuine, unguarded smile that I hadn' t seen directed at me in what felt like an eternity. He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second too long.

The casual intimacy of the gesture was like a physical blow. It was more damning than any photograph.

My feet were moving before my brain could process the decision.

"Clayton!"

My voice was hoarse, cracking in the cold air.

They both froze, turning toward the sound. Clayton' s smile vanished, replaced by a mask of shock and then, unmistakably, irritation. Kiersten' s expression was harder to read, but as her eyes met mine, a flicker of something triumphant, a calculated glint of victory, appeared in their depths.

"Ariel? What are you doing here?" Clayton asked, his tone clipped and cold. He took a half-step forward, subtly positioning himself between me and Kiersten. A protector. Just not mine.

"What am I doing here?" I repeated, my voice rising with disbelief. "I should be asking you the same thing, Clay. I' ve been calling you all night. I thought something had happened."

He had the grace to look momentarily ashamed, his gaze dropping to the pavement. "My phone died. It was a long night with the team, celebrating the new commission."

"The team?" I shot a look at Kiersten, who was now watching the scene unfold with a detached curiosity, like a spectator at a particularly interesting play. "Is she 'the team'?"

Kiersten offered a small, saccharine smile. "Ariel, right? Clay has told me so much about you."

The condescension in her voice was thick enough to choke on.

Clayton put a placating hand on her arm. "Kiersten, maybe you should head up." He was dismissing her, but it felt like he was protecting her, sheltering her from my messy, inconvenient emotions.

"No," I said, my voice gaining a raw edge of desperation. "She can stay. I want to know what's going on. Right here, right now."

"Ariel, you're making a scene," he hissed, his eyes darting around the empty street as if the paparazzi were about to descend. His public image. Always his first priority.

"I' m making a scene?" My laugh was brittle, humorless. "My husband disappears all night, and I get sent photos of him with his... protégée, and I' m the one making a scene?"

Kiersten' s façade of innocence cracked. She let out a delicate, theatrical sigh. "Clay, maybe you should handle this. She seems... unwell."

That word-unwell-ignited the last of my restraint.

"Don't you dare talk about my health," I snarled, stepping closer.

Clayton put his hand on my chest, not gently, but firmly, pushing me back. "That's enough, Ariel. You're hysterical. Go home. We' ll talk later."

The force of his push staggered me. The injustice of it-his touch, once my safe harbor, now used to shove me away in favor of her-made something snap. I shoved him back, my palm connecting with the hard wall of his chest. "Don't you touch me! Don't you dare."

He stumbled, his face a mixture of shock and fury. "What the hell is wrong with you? You' re acting crazy."

"Crazy?" I screamed, the word tearing from my throat. "You abandon me, you lie to me, you stand here with her, and I'm the one who's crazy?"

He didn' t answer. He just looked at me, his expression hardening into one of cold dismissal. He turned his back on me, placing a gentle hand on Kiersten' s shoulder. "Let's go. I'll deal with this."

The finality of that action, of him choosing her so decisively, broke me. He didn' t even look back as he guided her into the gleaming lobby, leaving me standing alone on the cold, wet pavement.

Through the glass doors, I saw Kiersten look back over her shoulder. She wasn't smiling anymore. She was just watching me, her eyes cold and assessing, as if I were a problem that had already been solved.

I caught my reflection in the dark glass of the building. The woman staring back was a ghost-pale, gaunt, with wild eyes and tear tracks staining her cheeks. Unwell. Maybe they were right.

The drive home was a fog of grief. I don' t remember the traffic or the route. I just remember parking the car and walking into our silent apartment.

He still wasn't there.

The pain in my body, which had been a dull ache, now sharpened into a throbbing agony. I sank onto the sofa, my gaze falling on the potted orchid on the coffee table. Its petals were brown and withered, the stem drooping sadly. I had forgotten to water it. We both had.

I remembered when Clayton gave it to me, years ago. "It's like you, Ari," he had said, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of a petal. "Elegant, beautiful, but needs a little extra care to truly thrive."

Now, it was dying. Just like everything else.

A desperate, primal need for comfort washed over me. I needed my mom. I needed her to tell me everything would be okay, to wrap me in a hug and make the world stop hurting for just a minute.

My hands shook as I dialed her number.

"Ariel? Honey, is everything alright? It's so early."

"Mom," I sobbed, the word barely audible. "Can I... can I come over? Just for a little while?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I could hear the hesitation.

"Is this about Clayton?" she asked, her voice softening but laced with a familiar weariness. "Did you two have another fight?"

"It's more than that, Mom. It's..."

"Ariel, listen to me," she interrupted gently. "Clayton is a good man. He' s a wonderful provider. Every marriage has its rough patches. You need to be more understanding. He' s under a lot of pressure at work. Don't be difficult. Just go home, get some rest, and things will look better in the morning."

Her words weren't a comfort. They were a dismissal. She wasn't listening to my pain; she was managing my expectations, smoothing over the cracks to preserve the perfect image of her daughter's successful marriage.

"But Mom-"

"I have to go, sweetie. Your father and I have an early golf game. We'll talk later. Be a good girl."

The line went dead. I was alone. Utterly and completely alone, abandoned by the two people who were supposed to love me most.

---