Chapter 4

Kacey Morton POV:

Ignoring his question, I reached for the door handle, determined to get out of the car on my own, even if I had to crawl.

Before my fingers could close around the latch, Blake was out of the car and had my door open. He scooped me up again, his grip firm and unyielding, and carried me into the house. The gesture wasn' t tender; it was proprietary. He was a man handling a problem.

He deposited me on the living room sofa and disappeared, returning minutes later with the first-aid kit. His movements were clumsy as he unwrapped an ice pack, his fingers fumbling with the bandages. It was clear he'd never done this before. In five years, I had been the caregiver, the one who tended to his colds and brought him soup when he worked late.

"Don't do that again," he said, his voice low as he wrapped my ankle, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man whose words were so harsh.

I watched him in silence. This was his pattern. The push and the pull. The cold indifference followed by a brief, confusing flash of concern. It was a cycle designed to keep me off balance, to make me crave the small crumbs of affection he occasionally tossed my way. It had worked for five years, leaving me in a constant state of emotional whiplash.

But I wasn't off balance anymore. I was strangely, terrifyingly still. The part of me that used to analyze his every mood, that desperately tried to decipher the meaning behind his silences, was gone.

"Thank you," I said, the words polite and empty, as he finished.

He remained kneeling before me, his eyes searching my face, clearly expecting something more. A tearful breakdown, perhaps. An apology. A plea for him to stay.

"Is there something else?" I asked, my tone as neutral as a stranger's.

He stood up, a frown creasing his brow. "Don't you want to ask me about Isabelle?"

I shook my head slowly. "No."

I didn't need to ask. I had seen her Instagram that morning. A public account, filled with pictures of her recent travels. She' d been in our city for two weeks. Two weeks he had never mentioned.

"I'm going to sleep in the guest room," I announced, pushing myself up carefully.

He moved to block my path. "Kacey, wait." He finally seemed to realize that this was different, that his usual tactics weren't working. "She needed a job. Her last project fell through. She's a brilliant architect, and we had an opening. It's just business."

"Okay," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. I understood business. This felt like anything but.

He scrutinized my face, trying to find a crack in my composure. "That's all it is. We're just friends now. Colleagues."

"Fine by me," I said, hopping on one foot toward the hallway.

He reached for my arm, his touch tentative this time. "Let's not do this."

I flinched away from his hand as if it were a hot iron. "Don't," I said, my voice sharp. "Don't touch me."

The shock on his face was profound. He looked at me as if he' d never seen me before. In all our years together, through all the silent treatments and broken promises, I had never once denied him my touch.

"Kacey," he warned, his voice turning hard again.

But the threat was empty now. I turned my back on him and made my way to the guest room, shutting the door firmly behind me. I didn't lock it, but the click of the latch felt as final as a tomb sealing shut.

The next morning, he was gone before I woke up. The house was silent. I called a cab and went to the office-our office-for the last time. I had joined the prestigious firm of Baird & Associates not because I had to, but because I wanted to be near him, to support him. He' d told everyone I was a talented architect they were lucky to have, but he' d insisted we keep our marriage a secret from our colleagues. "It's more professional this way," he'd said.

In reality, it just made it easier for him to ignore me. He' d walk past my desk without a glance, critique my designs with the same detached coolness he applied to everyone else, and never, ever acknowledge me as his partner. I had poured my soul into my projects, hoping to earn a crumb of praise from him, not as his wife, but as his peer. It never came.

I walked into the HR department, my resignation letter held tightly in my hand. The director, a kind woman named Martha, looked up in surprise.

"Kacey! I wasn't expecting you. I'm so sorry to hear about the changes."

I frowned. "What changes?"

Martha's face fell, a look of pity in her eyes. "Oh, dear. You mean Blake hasn't spoken to you? About the restructuring? Your lead position on the Waterfront Revitalization project has been... reassigned."

The air in the room suddenly felt thin. The Waterfront project was my baby. I had spent two years developing the concept, winning over the city council, securing the initial funding. It was the passion project Blake had dangled in front of me for years, the one he' d finally "gifted" me on our anniversary.

"Reassigned?" I echoed, my voice a hollow whisper. "To whom?"

My hand trembled as I held out the resignation letter. Martha took it, her eyes filled with an apology that wasn't hers to give.

She looked down at the official memo on her desk, then back up at me.

"To Isabelle Humphrey."

The floor seemed to drop out from under me. I gripped the edge of her desk, the polished wood cold against my clammy hands, the world tilting violently on its axis. He hadn't just brought his ex-girlfriend back into our lives. He hadn't just given her a job.

He had given her my dream.