Chapter 2

Alyssa York POV:

The pen felt like a lead weight in my hand, poised over the dotted line on the divorce papers. My stomach churned, a knot of old emotions twisting tighter with each beat of my heart. Breanna' s words, sharp and true, echoed in my ears, but so did the ghost of a touch, a whisper, a brief, stolen glance from years ago.

"You look radiant, Alyssa," Dayton had said on our wedding day, his hand gently tracing the bare skin of my arm as we danced. "This... this might not be so bad." A fragile promise, a flicker of warmth that, for a moment, had made me believe in a different future. I remembered the scent of his cologne, the strength of his arms, the way his eyes, usually so guarded, had softened just for me, for a fleeting instant.

But those moments were like brittle glass now, shattering under the weight of current reality.

"He wasn't parading her around, Breanna," I reiterated, putting the pen down. "Kristin has a chronic illness. Her episodes are real. He genuinely helps her." I tried to convince myself, to rationalize his actions, even though Breanna' s scoff told me she wasn't buying it.

"Oh, the poor, delicate Kristin," Breanna sneered, her eyes rolling. "She's always had 'episodes,' hasn't she? Every year, like clockwork, around your anniversary, or when you two are supposed to be making a big public appearance. It's her annual performance, Alyssa. You know it."

Her words sliced through my practiced composure, bringing back a tidal wave of pain. Three years ago, the anniversary dinner. Two years ago, the family retreat. Last year, the charity gala. Each time, a "crisis" with Kristin, and Dayton rushing to her side, leaving me alone, adrift. That night, three years ago, after he left me waiting at the restaurant, I' d driven aimlessly, blinded by tears, and crashed my car. Not badly, but enough to remind me how alone I was. I still bore the faint scar on my wrist, a constant reminder of that night. That was the real turning point, the night my love started to die, replaced by a cold, hard resolve to protect myself. Dayton had barely noticed my injuries. He was too consumed with Kristin' s "episode."

I picked up the pen again, my resolve strengthening. But then, my eyes landed on Breanna' s bandaged arm. "I can't just leave him in a lurch right now, Breanna. Not with the merger, and definitely not with... with what happened to you."

Breanna' s expression softened, a rare vulnerability flashing in her fierce gaze. "Alyssa, this isn't your burden to carry. My 'accident' is my problem. And the merger is a business deal. It'll survive Dayton's emotional entanglement."

"I know," I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "But Jerald Cole expects me to manage this. And my family needs this merger, Breanna. My cousin, Donavon, he's pinning all his hopes on it for his struggling startup."

Breanna shook her head. "Let him worry about his own damn startup. You worry about yourself." She paused, then tilted her head. "Speaking of my current situation... I need you to go to the gallery opening tonight. My rival, Marcus Thorne, is going to be there. I need you to discreetly gather some intel. My arm is useless, and I don't trust anyone else."

I looked at her, then back at the divorce papers. The thought of facing another public event, especially one where Dayton might be, made my stomach clench. But Breanna needed me. She was my only true ally. "Fine," I said, a reluctant acceptance. "But you owe me a lifetime supply of comfort food."

She grinned, a flash of her old self. "Deal. Now go, show them what a York woman is made of. And don't forget the papers are here. Waiting."

That evening, I walked into the glittering gallery, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and pretentious art. I plastered on my most serene smile, my eyes scanning the room for Marcus Thorne. I overheard fragments of conversations, whispers about the scandal.

"Did you see the news about Dayton Cole?"

"Oh, poor Alyssa. Always playing second fiddle to Kristin."

"Honestly, what does he see in that fragile little actress?"

Each hushed comment was a pinprick, reminding me of the public spectacle my life had become. My gaze drifted to a group clustered around a particularly abstract piece. And there he was. Dayton. Standing too close to a woman with a sharp, calculating smile, not Kristin. She was one of the socialites, known for her acid tongue.

"It's a shame, really," the woman was saying, her voice a little too loud, laced with false sympathy. "Alyssa always seemed so... stoic. You'd think after three years of separation, she'd have the good sense to just disappear gracefully. But no, she clings to that marriage like a drowning woman."

My blood ran cold. My hands clenched at my sides. Daytona stood there, a neutral expression on his face, offering no defense, no rebuttal. It was a familiar pattern. His silence was always his loudest statement.

Just as I was about to turn away, Arjun Clarke, Dayton's best friend and business partner, a laid-back playboy with an uncanny knack for observation, stepped in. His presence was a welcome interruption, a break in the suffocating tension.

"Come on, Cynthia, that's hardly fair," Arjun said, his voice smooth, but with an underlying edge. "Alyssa is a brilliant architect, running her own projects. She hardly needs a man to define her."

The woman, Cynthia, bristled, but before she could retort, Dayton finally spoke. "Alyssa makes her own choices," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold, almost clinical statement that felt less like a defense and more like an indictment. "Just as we all do."

His words hit me harder than Cynthia' s venom. They were a dismissal, a public declaration of his detachment. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, suddenly making it hard to breathe. I turned, a sharp, undeniable pain blooming in my chest.

"Alyssa?" Arjun' s voice was filled with genuine surprise.

I turned back, my composure snapping back into place like a well-oiled machine. My smile was practiced, serene. "Arjun. Dayton. I didn't realize you were here." I moved towards them, my steps light, confident. "Breanna couldn't make it tonight, so I'm here representing her. She's keen on a few of these new installations." I offered a small, knowing glance to Arjun, a subtle signal that I was on a mission.

Arjun' s eyes, usually mischievous, held a hint of concern. "Of course. Let me show you around. There are a few pieces I think you'd appreciate."

"Actually," Dayton interjected, his voice cuttingly calm. "I can accompany Alyssa. Grandfather wants us to be seen together tonight anyway, doesn't he, Alyssa?" His eyes held a challenge, a subtle taunt.

My heart lurched. This was unexpected. I wanted to refuse, wanted to escape his presence, but the unspoken threat of Jerald Cole hung heavy in the air. "Indeed," I said, my voice steady, though my stomach was doing flip-flops. "A show of solidarity, as always."

Arjun' s eyebrows shot up slightly, but he didn't press. "Alright then. I'll catch up with you two later." He gave me a reassuring nod, then moved to mingle with other guests.

Dayton offered his arm, a stiff, formal gesture. I took it, the contact feeling electric and hollow all at once. "Grandfather is hosting the annual Cole-York foundation dinner next month," he said, his voice low, for my ears only. "He expects us to attend. As a united front."

My mind raced. The foundation dinner was one of the most prestigious events of the year, a showcase of family power and influence. It was a perfect stage for our false reconciliation. "I already assumed as much," I replied, my voice cool.

"Good," he said, the corner of his lips twitching into a humorless smile. "Because he was quite insistent." He led me through the gallery, his hand a cold weight on my arm. The flashes of cameras followed us, painting a picture of a devoted couple, a lie so perfectly constructed, it almost felt real. I felt like a puppet, dancing on strings held by others. The longing for true freedom, for an end to this charade, intensified. This charade had to end.

"Dayton," I began, my voice barely a whisper, but firm. "We need to talk about this arrangement. After the merger is finalized, after the foundation dinner... I want to formalize our separation."

He stopped, his grip on my arm tightening, his gaze piercing. "Formalize? What are you suggesting, Alyssa? Divorce? Do you have any idea the impact that would have on our families, on the merger, on everything we've built?" His voice was low, dangerous.

"A quiet, private separation," I clarified, my resolve hardening. "Away from the public eye. Minimal impact. We can manage the narrative, just as we're doing now. But I can't keep living this lie, Dayton. I can't." The words, once trapped in my throat, now flowed, raw and desperate.

He stared at me for a long moment, his face a mask of calculated indifference. "And what makes you think I'd agree to that?"

"Because it benefits both of us," I countered, my voice gaining strength. "You get your freedom. I get mine. And our families avoid a public scandal that could cost them billions. It's a clean break, Dayton. A practical solution."

He released my arm, his hand dropping away as if I were distasteful. "Fine," he said, his voice clipped, his eyes still fixed on mine. "But under one condition. We maintain this façade until the merger is complete. And you ensure your family, especially your cousin Donavon, doesn't cause any more trouble for my projects. Otherwise, there will be no 'clean break.' Just a very public, very messy one." His words were a cold, hard threat.

"Agreed," I said, the single word feeling like a surrender and a victory all at once. I had set a deadline. A path to freedom.

"Good," he said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Let's make sure we put on a good show then, Mrs. Cole." He extended his arm again, and I took it, mechanically.

We continued our public dance, a perfect picture of marital bliss, each flash of the camera a painful reminder of the lie. But this time, it was different. This time, I had a plan. A timetable for my escape. I just had to survive a little longer.