Chapter 2

Estella Holloway POV:

I was discharged two days later. Jasper never came back to the hospital. Not once.

The taxi dropped me off at the gates of the sprawling villa Jasper and I had designed together. Our dream home. Every line, every window, every shade of white had been a joint decision, a testament to our shared future. Now, it felt like a monument to a life that had been stolen from me.

As I walked through the front door, the first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn' t the familiar scent of my vanilla and sandalwood candles. It was a cloying, sweet floral perfume. Kimberley' s scent. It was everywhere, an invasive weed choking out everything that was once mine.

I followed the sound of soft humming to our master bedroom.

The door was ajar. Kimberley Riley was standing in front of my full-length mirror, draped in my favorite silk robe-the one Jasper had bought me for our anniversary. My jewelry box was open on the vanity, its contents spilled across the marble surface like a pirate' s treasure.

She was holding my mother' s pearl necklace, letting the delicate gems slide through her fingers.

"Oh, Estella! You' re home," she said, her voice a perfect blend of surprise and feigned innocence. She didn't look ill. She looked vibrant, triumphant. "Jasper was so worried. He insisted I stay here where he could keep an eye on me."

She gestured vaguely around the room. "He said you wouldn' t mind. Since, you know... you' ll be leaving soon anyway."

Her eyes, sharp and calculating, landed on the nightstand. On the velvet box that held my engagement ring and wedding band. The ring was a custom piece I had designed myself, an intricate band of woven platinum meant to symbolize our intertwined lives.

Kimberley picked it up, her fingers closing around the platinum band. She tried to slip it onto her own finger. It was too small.

"He told me the story of this ring," she murmured, a smug little smile playing on her lips. "How he promised it would be the only one you' d ever wear."

A hot, white rage flared in my chest, burning away the numbness. "Put it down, Kimberley."

She feigned a startled gasp, her eyes welling with instant, crocodile tears. "I-I' m sorry. I was just admiring it. It' s so beautiful. I didn' t mean any harm."

"I said, put it down."

"What' s going on?"

Jasper' s voice came from the doorway. He was wearing an apron-my apron, the one with the silly 'Kiss the Architect' slogan I' d bought him as a joke. He was holding a spatula. He had been cooking for her.

He looked from Kimberley' s tear-streaked face to my cold, hard expression. His brows furrowed in immediate disapproval.

"Estella, what are you doing?" he demanded. "Can' t you see you' re upsetting her? She' s fragile. Be a little more generous."

The absurdity of his words struck me dumb. Generous? I was being asked to be generous to the woman who had systematically dismantled my life?

"That ring," I said, my voice dangerously low, "is mine. I want her to take her hands off it."

Jasper sighed, a long, weary sound of pure exasperation. He walked over to Kimberley, gently taking the ring from her grasp. For a heart-stopping second, I thought he was going to give it back to me.

Instead, he turned to her, his voice softening. "Don' t worry, darling. I' ll buy you a new one. Something bigger. Better."

Then, he turned and, without a second thought, tossed my ring-our ring, our promise, our entire history-into the open, half-packed suitcase on my bed as if it were a piece of trash.

"And Estella," he said, his voice hardening again as he looked at me. "Kimberley needs this room. It has the best light and the en-suite bathroom is more accessible for her. You can take the guest room downstairs."

I stood there, frozen, as he put a protective arm around Kimberley and led her out of the room, murmuring soothing words to her. I was an intruder in my own home. A guest in my own life.

Dinner was a silent, torturous affair. The table was laden with all of Kimberley' s favorites: pan-seared scallops, lobster bisque, grilled asparagus. Every dish was a reminder of how well he knew her, and how thoroughly he had forgotten me.

The scallops were cooked in peanut oil.

I have a severe, life-threatening peanut allergy. Jasper knew this. He had once rushed me to the emergency room in a panic after I' d accidentally eaten a cookie with peanut butter filling. He' d held my hand while the doctors administered the EpiPen, his face pale with fear, swearing he would never let anything like that happen again.

Now, he was carefully picking the a tiny piece of shell from Kimberley' s lobster, his focus entirely on her.

"Oh," he said, glancing up at me as if just remembering I was there. "You' re okay with peanuts, right?"

My heart didn' t just break. It turned to dust. The man who once memorized my every preference, my every fear, now couldn' t remember the one thing that could kill me.

I watched him, my hand trembling as I picked up my chopsticks. I didn' t eat a bite.

After dinner, Kimberley cooed that she wanted to see Jasper' s childhood photo albums. He led her to the study, a place that had always been our private sanctuary, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back.

I went back upstairs to the guest room-the small, impersonal space I had been relegated to-and began to pack the few remaining belongings that he hadn' t already discarded. There wasn' t much left. My life with him had been so all-encompassing, I had very little that was just my own.

A sudden crash echoed from the study downstairs, followed by Kimberley' s theatrical shriek.

I rushed down the hall.

On the floor of the study lay the shattered remains of a silver picture frame. And amidst the glittering shards of glass was the torn, crumpled photograph of my mother. It was the only picture I had of her from before she got sick, her smile radiant, her eyes full of life. It was my most treasured possession.

"Oh, my goodness!" Kimberley cried, pressing a hand to her chest. "I am so, so clumsy. I just wanted to get a closer look, and it just... slipped."

Jasper was already by her side, checking her hands for cuts. "It' s just a picture, Kimberley, don' t worry about it," he said dismissively. "We can get another one printed."

He couldn' t. My mother was dead. The negative was lost years ago. This was it. This was all I had left.

Pain, sharper and more profound than any physical injury, ripped through me. I sank to my knees, my fingers numbly trying to piece together the fragments of my mother' s smiling face. A sliver of glass sliced into my fingertip. I didn' t even feel it. Blood welled up, a single, perfect red droplet that fell onto the torn image, staining her cheek like a tear.

My own tears fell, silent and hot, blurring the shattered memory before me.

I looked up, my vision swimming. Jasper was still fussing over Kimberley, completely oblivious to the utter devastation he had just allowed to happen.

My red-rimmed eyes met his across the room, and for the first time in twenty years, I didn't see the man I loved. I saw a stranger. A cruel, careless stranger who had just destroyed the last piece of my heart.

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