Chapter 3

Belen Porter POV:

Gregory came home just after midnight, the scent of stale champagne and a cloyingly sweet perfume clinging to him like a second skin. It was the same perfume from my birthday, Adrianna' s scent. My stomach turned.

He found me in the living room, curled up on the couch, a book resting unread in my lap. He tried to smile, but it was a weak, frayed thing.

"Hey," he murmured, kneeling in front of me. "You' re still up."

He reached for my hand, but I shifted, letting it fall between the cushions. His smile faltered.

"I' ve already picked out a gift for you," I said, my voice even, almost conversational. "A little something to celebrate our new... addition."

Relief washed over his face. He thought I meant the baby. He thought I was oblivious, that my silence was acceptance. The sheer arrogance of it was breathtaking.

"Belen, about last night..." he began, his voice laced with that practiced, patronizing tone he used when he was about to explain away a bad business decision. "I know how it looked, but you have to understand. Adrianna... she' s fragile. I have to help her."

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket. "I got you something. To say I' m sorry for the scene."

He opened it to reveal a diamond necklace, a cascade of brilliant stones that probably cost more than most people' s homes. It was exquisite. It was also identical to the one Adrianna was wearing in the photo she had sent me. A bulk purchase, perhaps? A two-for-one deal on tokens of apology for the women he was betraying.

A sharp, physical pain shot through my chest, so intense it made me gasp.

"So you' ll set her up, give her some money, and that will be the end of it?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the glittering, meaningless diamonds.

"Exactly," he said, his relief palpable. "A clean break. I just need to make sure she' s stable first. It' s the least I can do."

"And what about the auction?" I pressed, my voice dangerously soft. "That grand declaration in front of the entire world. Was that just about making sure she' s 'stable' ?"

He had the grace to look ashamed, but only for a moment. "It was a mistake. I was emotional. It won' t happen again." He leaned in, trying to kiss me, but I turned my head. His lips brushed against my cheek, and the scent of her perfume was so strong it made me want to gag.

I pulled back, and my eyes caught a faint, almost invisible smear on the collar of his white shirt. A deep, telltale crimson. Ruby Woo.

"You should be more careful, Gregory," I said, letting my fingers trace the line of his collar, stopping just short of the stain. "You wouldn' t want to leave any... evidence."

His eyes widened slightly. He knew. He knew that I knew.

He tried to kiss me again, more forcefully this time, a desperate attempt to reclaim his territory. I placed a hand firmly on his chest, stopping him. "I don' t feel well."

As if on cue, a wave of nausea rolled through me, real and violent. I stumbled to the bathroom, the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. The stress, the heartbreak, the sheer disgust-it was all manifesting in a brutal, physical rejection.

When I emerged, pale and trembling, Gregory was in the kitchen. He was stirring a pot on the stove, the familiar scent of his mother' s ginger and chicken soup filling the air. For a horrifying, disorienting moment, it was like old times. Like the man I loved was still here, caring for me.

"Here," he said, ladling the soup into a bowl. "This always used to make you feel better."

He set it in front of me, and for a second, I almost let myself believe the illusion. I remembered all the times he' d done this, whispering that he would always take care of me.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and the mask of concern dropped, replaced by an urgent, frantic energy.

"I' m sorry, Belen," he said, already pulling on his coat. "It' s Adrianna. She' s having a panic attack. I have to go."

He didn't wait for a response. He was out the door before I could even process the whiplash of his betrayal.

I stared at the soup. Steam curled from the surface, carrying the scent of ginger, chicken, and... peanuts. A tiny, almost imperceptible sliver of peanut, garnish for a soup that never had garnish.

I' m allergic to peanuts. Not deathly, but severely. It was the first thing he had learned about me. He had once berated a five-star chef for letting cross-contamination happen in the kitchen, hovering over me with a level of concern that had bordered on panic.

He had forgotten.

In his haste to comfort his ex-lover, in the fog of his lies and his guilt, he had completely and utterly forgotten something that could have seriously harmed me. Or perhaps, he just didn't care anymore.

The pain in my chest was no longer sharp. It was a dull, heavy weight, the feeling of something dying.

I stood up, carried the bowl to the sink, and poured the soup down the drain. I walked to the living room, picked up the velvet box, and dropped the necklace into the trash can.

I didn' t sleep that night. I sat by the window, watching the sky slowly lighten from black to bruised purple to a cold, unforgiving gray, and I waited for the dawn of my new life.

A single text illuminated my phone screen just before sunrise. It was from Camden.

I' m here. Whenever you' re ready.

My reply was just as simple.

I' m ready now.