Chapter 4

Elara POV:

"Your birthday present," I said, my voice cool and even as I held the small black box out to him. "You can open it on the day."

He took it, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He thought it was a reconciliation. A new watch, perhaps, to mark a new beginning. He was so predictable.

For the next two days, Brendan's attention was suffocating. He played the part of the perfect, attentive husband, shadowing my every move, bringing me gifts, whispering promises he had no intention of keeping. It was a performance, and I was his captive audience.

Meanwhile, Kiya's provocations escalated. My phone became a weapon in her hands. A barrage of texts began, each one a tiny, poisoned dart.

He told me he loves the way I laugh. He says your laugh is too quiet.

This is the dress he bought me last week. Do you like it?

Then came the text that confirmed this wasn't some new, fleeting indiscretion.

Four years, Elara. He's been with me for four years. While you were building his empire, I was warming his bed.

My world, which had already turned to ash, was now ground into dust. Four years of lies. Four years of my life, a meticulously crafted fabrication.

The final blow was a video. I opened it without thinking. It was them, in a hotel suite I recognized, tangled in the sheets. Kiya held the phone, a smug, triumphant look on her face.

"Am I better than her?" she asked Brendan, her voice a purr.

His face was off-camera, but his voice was clear-and worse, bored. "Sex is sex. Love is business."

The words didn't sting anymore. They were just... data. Information confirming a hypothesis.

"Then make me your official woman," Kiya pushed, her voice turning whiny.

"That title belongs to Elara," he said dismissively. "But I can give you money. Cars. A house."

She paused, then her voice dropped, becoming sly. "Can I have a baby?"

There was a long silence. I watched the screen, my breath catching in my throat. Brendan's expression, when he finally turned toward the camera, was thoughtful, considering.

He did not say no.

Just then, the real Brendan walked into the room, holding two bowls of my favorite ice cream. He saw my pale face, the phone clutched in my hand.

Without a word, he took the phone from my grasp. He glanced at the screen just long enough to register the image, then placed it face down on the table.

He didn't ask. He didn't explain.

He just sat down and pushed a bowl of ice cream toward me.

I'll never have to see another video like that again, I thought, a strange sense of peace washing over me.

The decision was made. The path was clear.

Brendan and Kiya's "business trip" to Miami was scheduled in two days. He thought it was a secret. I had until then to erase myself completely.